


A Forest On Fire

by ghostofchristmaspast



Category: Original Work
Genre: Below Zero, Chalin, Chlealiva, Fiction, Fluie, Gen, Grey Owl Theatre, Horror, L'arbre Vivant, Mystery, Original work - Freeform, Other, Rousette, Snapping Stones, The Hummingbird's Harvest, The International Association of Hunters and Purifiers, alot of people die so i mean, also mechanical animals, also this takes place in like the early to mid 1800's, hint_hint.jpg, if you like historical fiction plot holes and being confused i got you, kind of steampunk-ish, silver mines, those goddamn werewolves and semi psychic maybe skinwalkers amirite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 19:30:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 29
Words: 70,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7696552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofchristmaspast/pseuds/ghostofchristmaspast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1839, two men by the names Victor Woodry and Oliver Abachus mysteriously disappear after the murder of the actress Delilah Krau in the nation of Chalín. Four years later, in 1843, a mangled body shows up in a nobleman's silver mine in the bordering nation of Rousétte. This nobleman, Abraham Volleh, contacts Governor Elliot Phorus and her companion, Lydia Blackwater, to discover the identity of the body. <br/>              These two cases could not seem more unrelated to each other, but it is only until past secrets come to light and creatures that only exist in fiction and the mind's of children become a reality that they realize that could not be farther from the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hour One

**Author's Note:**

> Here is a guide to the fictional language used: 
> 
> https://www.quotev.com/story/8276236/A-Guide-to-the-Language-of-Friman
> 
> Includes phrases the characters themselves have said.

       Elliot's heavily falling footsteps resonated through the deserted, reticent hallway; the distant chirping crickets and a cold, sharp gust of the night air alerted her to an open window only a few paces away. The flame from a candle that sat below on a desk cluttered with papers flickered. A raven landed on the edge, folding its stiff, mechanical wings with a grinding crunch as it let out a thick, black cloud of smoke from a pipe on its plated back.  
"Get in if you're coming in, then," Elliot muttered to the robotic fowl.   
       The raven let out a scratchy, piercing squawk that only something metal like itself would be able to produce from its rusty vocal cords. It hopped off the windowsill and landed on the desk with a metallic clunk, sending some of the papers flitting downwards to the ground. Gov. Phorus closed the window before the wildly swirling snow spread its frigidness indoors and looked down at the expectantly staring bird. "Well? What do they want, Ballast?"   
        The raven shook slightly as it straightened itself and opened its beak; at first, only static poured from the speaker at the back of its throat, but a man's frantic voice broke through. Elliot recognised this voice to belong to Abraham Volleh, someone whom she had worked with a few times prior. Mr Volleh was nothing more than a simple business man who owned a mine not far from Fluie on the outskirts of Chlealiva. The message that erupted from the raven went as follows:  
"Governor Elliot Phorus, I'm sure you remember me: Abraham Volleh. I do hate to bother you only a short time after your previous favour, but it seems another problem has arisen." Abraham chuckled nervously. "You see, this time, it's to deal with my mine- I'm sure you're aware of how very important my mine is to me-, but, more specifically, it's to do with my employees. You'll have to speak with them if you want to get more information, and I'm afraid some of them will get hurt if this continues on any longer. I'm quite busy at the moment, so, if you'd be so kind as to stop by and sort this out, I'd reward you greatly."  
        Ballast closed its beak and cocked its head, awaiting Elliot's response, but, instead, the governor stared ahead at a door at the end of the hallway which began to slowly creak open. "Blackwater, if that's you, don't be so damn childish and just open the door," she snapped, quite fed up with Lydia's antics after having lived with her for so many years. Lydia's head slowly appeared in the gap between the wall and the door, and a wide, forced grin stretched across her face.  
"I didn't mean to eavesdrop, Governor, but shall I buy the tickets to Chlealiva?" Lydia's monotone voice sounded.  
Elliot frowned with annoyance at the sight of her. "Why are you so damn strange all the time?"  
"Anyone would be if they were like me," was the creature's response.  
"I don't think anyone _is_ like you." She turned to the raven to speak her response but stopped. "How long had you been standing behind that door, Blackwater?"  
"How long had I been standing here in all or in the dark?" Her eyes scrunched up with a smile Elliot couldn't see, as Lydia's face was half-covered by the door.  
"Off with you, beast. Fetch the tickets," Gov. Phorus ordered.  
Ms Blackwater's smile only grew, and Elliot was glad it had been covered by the door. "No need to be so harsh, Governor," was the last thing she said before slipping off into the dark hall.   
        Elliot let out a breath she didn't know she was holding and wondered how she was able to sleep at night knowing that something such as Lydia was only rooms beside her. She considered herself lucky that Lydia had as much self-control as she did; most of the creatures like herself didn't have half as much. Gov. Phorus recorded her response to Abraham and shooed Ballast out the window and into the wintry forest, watching the small puffs of smoke dissipate into the dark sky as the raven impelled itself away from the building.  
        After bowing and picking up the papers that had fallen upon the raven's entry, Elliot continued on her walk through the house. She flung the door open and nearly spit out the tea she had in her mouth when Lydia leant forward, smiling that horrid, mockingly servile leer. "Christ, Lydia!" Elliot shouted; the wariness of waking the others in the house fleeing her mind for a moment.   
"It's done, Governor," Blackwater stated, holding both of the tickets in her hand. "The train leaves at 7:45 A.M."   
"How the hell did you manage that so quickly?"  
Her hand fell to her side again. "We've lived together for two and a half years, and you still haven't figured me out." Lydia's smile dropped and she feigned sadness. "You really should pay more attention,  _liere."_  
        Elliot pushed passed the creature, but, even as she walked away, she could feel Lydia's eyes following her. That's what she was made for- intimidation, shedding trepidation onto others like a lizard sheds its flaky skin. Once the governor had reached her bedroom door, she let out a shaky sigh. She took a glance down the hallway where she had come, and the only thing that sat in the darkness were the two train tickets resting on a bookshelf.


	2. Those That Run On Heat

        A gentle, timid rapping on her bedroom door awoke Elliot with an abrupt start. She sluggishly groped around in the dark and, with the help of the light streaming in from the bottom of the door, turned on the lamp beside her bed. "Who is it?" She asked. "It's not time to leave for the train, is it?" Elliot clumsily stumbled out of her bed but wasn't able to open the door, as whoever had knocked did so first.  
"Not yet, Governor," the man, Merlin Dounor, responded. "However, Ruth wished me to wake you, as I believe she has something to say before you do leave."  
"Why is Ruth here?" Elliot began to pull her clothes from the closet in preparation to wear. "When did she arrive?"  
Merlin turned his head, presumably to glance at a clock. "Two hours ago; it is currently 6:18, Governor." After a pause, Mr Dounor continued, "I'm sorry to say, Governor, but I'm afraid there is something else I must tell you."  
"What is it?"  
Merlin pulled something out of his pocket and held it out to give to Elliot; it was a picture. "Abraham sent it via Ballast. One of his employees turned up dead in one of the mines last night."  
She took it from his hands and flinched when she saw the body. "M-My God, who is it?"  
"None of them know for sure, but it is assumed that the body is Victor Woodry, as one of the miners found the corpse only a few hours after Woodry split away from his group."  
Elliot passed the photo back to Merlin. "Tell Ruth I'll only be a second more."  
        Mr Dounor nodded and left Elliot alone to get dressed. The photo's contents remained vivid in her mind, despite only being able to bear looking at it for a few moments. As she dressed, Elliot wondered if whatever had done this would stand to be negotiated with. She knew Lydia was not unlike a creature who could do something such as that, perhaps she could intimidate the monster enough to chase it out.  
        Or perhaps it wasn't a monster at all; perhaps one of the employees were insane, or, perhaps, Abraham was at fault. One underling causes too much trouble, and the boss offs them; it wasn't unfathomable. Nevertheless, she only knew one thing: whoever did this sinful deed did absolutely nothing to the body other than messily and sloppily remove the victim's skin.  
"Thinking, are we?" Lydia's sly, proud voice broke through her barrier of thoughts.   
Elliot visibly jumped, closing her eyes and exhaling loudly in annoyance. "What is it, Blackwater?"  
"How come you call everyone by their first name, but never me?"  
"That's not what you came here for, I pray." Elliot repeated, "What is it?"  
Lydia sighed, but the governor refrained from turning in fear of seeing that terrible smile and slid on her coat. "Merlin sent me to tell you that Ruth is getting a tad impatient, _liere._ He couldn't come himself because he's gotten wrapped up in dealing with your little nephew and niece. I'd hurry; you know how much he hates children."  
        Elliot braced herself and swiftly turned, but the room was empty. Her shoulders slumped in both relief and confusion. She ran her fingers through her short, dark hair and angrily swore that Lydia would always remain a mystery to her. Elliot exited her room and looked upwards. It was 6:35.   
"There you are!" A boy's voice echoed through the hallway. Elliot wasn't aware of where he was until something hooked itself onto her legs, squeezing them tightly.  
"Mama, we found her!" A little girl's sing-song voice came from down the hallway.  
        Elliot looked down to find her nephew, Matthew, hugging her legs. The governor's niece, Tara, stood a little further down the hall, tugging on Ruth's hand. "Control your children, please, sister," Elliot said, gently prying the boy's small arms from around her knee.  
"Apologies, Elliot, but you do know how excited they get when they visit you."  
"Merlin said you had something to tell me?"  
Ruth's expression suddenly turned soft and shy. "Well, yes. It's- I'm afraid it's about, well, Harry."   
"Harry?"  
"You know how he is, I'm sure. But recently he's gotten-"  
"Governor?" Merlin peeked into the hall from behind the corner where Ruth had come. "The carriage is ready for you, and I'd suggest leaving soon. The snow is falling quite heavily, and it'd be a shame should the horses' gears freeze up before you even set off."  
"Ruth?" Elliot looked up at her elder sister. "Will you be alright staying here until I return?"  
"Y-Yes, of course!" Ruth stuttered out, clutching her daughter and son at her side. "Yes, but, oh, do hurry back. What I must tell you is quite important, Ellie."  
"Of course, sister. I will return as soon as possible."   
        As Merlin opened the front door for her, the frigid blast of cold air almost instantly chilled her to the bone. The snow was falling thickly, even as early in the morning as it was. The snowy haze was broken by the lit lantern that hung off the top of the carriage and the large clouds of black exhaust puffing outwards from the horses' nostrils and mouths. The carriage itself was but a vague silhouette, and there, in the fog and freeze, she realised she couldn't hear anything. Not the rushing of the wind nor the stamp of metallic hooves on the frozen cobble; there was nothing but silence. Even though Elliot knew she was only a few strides to either the carriage or the house, she felt completely alone.   
        The governor walked forward, each step stretched out the unease that had rested itself deep within her chest and screamed for her to stop- to turn back, but forward she strode. Her hand reached out towards the carriage door, but it was suddenly thrust open, causing her to recoil in surprise and fear. However, there stood Lydia; her arm outstretched to spread the light from the lantern she held, and, God, that smile plastered itself onto her emotionless, empty canvas of a face. "Governor." Lydia bowed slightly and sat in a leather seat to make way for Elliot to enter. "Good morning. I hope you had a restful night, _liere."_ Lydia knocked on the wall of the carriage, and it jolted into motion.  
"Do you even know what ' _liere'_ means, Blackwater?" Elliot droned, pulling down her hat slightly.  
"I know just as much about your language as the one we're speaking now." Her eyes darted to the window, and she pulled back the curtain. "Has anyone ever called you that? Except me, of course."  
Elliot sighed and shrugged, forcing her arms against her own body for warmth. "Ruth, sometimes, but she prefers using the English term."  
"And why do you speak English, _liere_? It certainly isn't as easy as speaking your native language."  
She nestled her nose in her gloves. "Why do you speak at all? You're not native to _any_ language."  
"I need to communicate somehow, don't I? Even here, English seems to be quite popular amongst the people, don't you think? Such a shame, though. It is quite a beautiful language, yours. Well, at least you still retain your accents."  
"Why so chatty today, Blackwater?"  
The smile, which had previously faded, spread back into its original form. "Do you think they've saved some of the roses from the spring? I'd love to buy some of them. Quite beautiful. Chlealiva roses are known for their thick and bountiful petals, you know."  
"I know, Blackwater, but you didn't answer my question."  
        "Oh?" Her smile curled upwards a bit, and Elliot finally felt it. The carriage had stopped moving; for how long, she wasn't aware. She hadn't been paying attention, and, that, she cursed at herself for. The last thing she wanted was to be stuck in the middle of a frozen forest alone with the beast sitting in front of her. The governor sprung up and shook the handle on the door, but it was frozen. Lydia's arm reached over and, with a sudden twist of her wrist, broke the door free with a loud crack. It slowly creaked open. "Oil's under your seat, Governor."  
        The canister of warm oil was heavy for her cold, tired arms, and the feeling of immense dread as she stepped out into the foggy, dark woods only made it worse. The sight of the rusty, plated horses frozen in place only made it eerier, and there was the silence again. Elliot shook. The cold bit at her skin and burned the inside of her nose as she breathed heavily in, and, if the mechanical creatures standing before her could feel, she was sure it would be hell for those machines that ran on the heat.  
        As she fed them their fuel, Elliot's eyes wandered to the top of the carriage. Ballast sat tranquilly at the top, but she was sure the raven was frozen, too. She boosted herself upwards with the step used to enter the carriage and quickly snatched Ballast from the roof. Elliot groaned as she pulled the canister into the carriage and plopped down at her seat. Lydia smiled mockingly and knocked twice on the wall. Slowly, the horses began to move. "You could have helped, Blackwater," Elliot snapped. "That's what you're here for, isn't it?"  
"I'm simply here to do the heavy, dirty work, as I'm sure is expected of me. Just think of it as my saving of energy."  
        They knew they had arrived at Chlealiva when they noticed the forest grow lighter and lighter and an abundance of dead rose bushes appeared outside of their lightly frosted-over windows. The gate to the city was open, but the carriage diverted onto another path to the right, where the road was infested with jagged rocks and shook the carriage terribly with every trotting stride the horses took. However, both Elliot and Lydia had taken this road before, as it leads to Abraham's silver mine.   
        When the carriage finally came to a stop in front of the gates to the mine, they found it deserted. Usually, there would be a guard standing watch or other carriages and their horses awaiting the commands of their master, but, today, it was empty. "It must've been the cold," that was what Elliot immediately thought when she saw it. She had been focusing outside the opposite window and only realised that Lydia had opened the door for her when a strong gust of icy wind flooded the carriage.  
        Elliot stepped out, followed closely behind by her companion who slammed the door closed. She shivered again; the prickly feeling of goosebumps spread across her skin, almost painfully so. It was quiet, except for the light humming of the wind and the crunch of the sticky snow underneath their boots as they walked towards the gate. Ballast squawked its fingernails-scratching-against-a-chalkboard squawk and fluttered ahead of them, suddenly diving down and presumably landing on something, but on what it had landed was too far away in the fog for them to see clearly.   
"Governor Phorus?" Abraham called out. "Is that you?" A light shone in their direction, and the raven subsequently appeared again.   
"Yes, Mr Volleh, Lydia and I have arrived."   
His figure emerged from the mist, lantern in hand. "I apologise for the circumstances in which we have to meet, Governor. Had I known the snow and fog would be this terrible, I'd have called upon you to meet at my mansion instead. In fact, I sent Ballast to notify you of this, but it seems that did no good."  
"It's quite alright, Mr Volleh. Would we still be able to see the mine, or shall we go back and reschedule?"  
"Oh, no, it would be a shame for you to have to go all the way back for nothing, and the mine really isn't all that cold." Abraham Volleh suddenly stopped when his eyes fell upon Lydia, and he seemed to hesitate for a moment. "B-But, please, d-do come. It isn't that far of a walk from here."   
        Elliot stole a glance at Lydia and saw that her smile was replaced with an unfamiliar scowl, but she agreed to go to the mine despite the weather. The fog had begun to clear a little as they came closer and closer to the mine, but it was only actually due to the ludicrous amounts of light fixtures that had been set up around the entrance. A sign by the entrance told any would-be passerby that the mine had been closed down until further notice, for obvious reasons. Abraham had clearance to entering, as did anyone investigating the scene, such as sheriffs or detectives, but Mr Volleh assured the two that neither would be coming to the mine because he wished to remain secretive and promised that the employees would also remain so.   
         Both were relieved to have entered the cave; it was warmer, and the fog dissipated after a short walk inwards. There were steps to a crude balcony-like area, where someone watched over those working. Though they had gone by where one would usually turn on the lights, Abraham simply walked passed the switch, which caused Elliot to look up at the man in wonder, and she realised how nervously and fidgety he was acting. His eyes darted around in the darkness, as one would look when frantically searching for something, and a light rattle of metal came from the lantern as his hand shook.   
        Despite doing this often, the smell of a rotting corpse still got to her, but, somehow, the rancid stench hit Elliot harder than usual; however, Lydia seemed unfazed both at the sight and the smell. The body was covered by a tarp, and she could see the dry blood that had seeped out from under it. Elliot did not ask him to uncover it; she knew what it looked like and did not wish to see the flayed man again. "I-I had almost forgotten something," Abraham quickly said, almost sputtering on his words.  
Elliot looked at him. "What is it, Mr Volleh?"   
"Well, I'm sure someone got the message, but the presumed victim is Victor Woodry, correct?"   
"Yes-" She paused for a moment to remember but knew she was right. "Yes, why? Is something wrong, Abraham?"  
"Well, th-that cannot be, Governor." Abraham muttered something to himself.  
"Honestly, what's wrong? We don't have to be here if it bothers you so much, Volleh."   
"No, no, it's just that-" He stopped, glancing down at the tarp. "That cannot be the body of Victor Woodry."   
"And why's that?" Lydia suddenly chipped in- her voice accusatory.   
"Because he's alive. His husband said he showed up to their home last night- a bit shaken up, but otherwise looking fine." He audibly swallowed and sounded to almost choke. "I checked with everyone who is employed, and they're all alive."   
        Elliot looked down at the body, and a pit of dread began to take shape as she came to realise what that meant. Whoever was under that sheet, supposedly skinned alive, was not one who worked at the mine, or one who should even be there. That fact alone made her job all the more difficult.


	3. Abandoned In Spite

" _Such a waste,"_ Lydia scornfully remarked, tearing up the train tickets that she had been ordered to buy and haphazardly throwing them on the floor of the carriage. Abraham Volleh anxiously scooped up the shreds; his hands were visibly shaking, but his nervousness was justified. They were travelling to Chalin, and the relationship between Chalin and Rousette was precarious, to say the least. No doubt the people in his hometown would dub him a traitor, as he is Chalinian and became a Rousettean citizen shortly before the war between the two countries.   
        When they had previously arrived at the clinic shared both by Oliver and Victor Woodry, neither of them was to be found. However, a lady passing by with her three young children stopped to tell them that the doctor, Oliver Woodry, had travelled to crime-ridden Chalin in search of a medicine he had run out of. This woman was a patient of his, and he had informed her of his trip when giving an excuse for why he had cancelled her appointment. She hurriedly gave them her name, Nora, and scurried off with her children.  
         Elliot's gloved hands laid limply in her lap, and she sat there, staring at them, thinking- not of Victor, but of her sister. The sound of Abraham lecturing Lydia on cleanliness was nothing in her ears compared to the bustle happening outside the carriage. Groups of people- a few women per, mostly- spoke loudly to each other, salespeople shouted their offerings, the hoofbeats of horses alike the ones they were using now, and the occasional hack of a butcher's knife on concrete slabs echoed throughout the large marketplace. These sounds were the only thing needed to identify that they had reached Bopaume, where one of the few allowed passages at the border of the two countries remained open.   
        They had no properly signed paper to allow them into them into the country, which would have otherwise been signed by the duke- or his soon-to-be-crowned elder brother, in this case-, but none of them could get a chance to speak with the man. There is quite a number of responsibilities for a duke, after all, especially in times like these. As such, Elliot, the governor, and Abraham, a noble, would have to rely on their statuses within their province to get through.  
        As if on cue to Elliot's worrying thoughts, their carriage came to a sudden halt, and everything, for a moment, was silent. Then came a woman's ringing shout, " _Runett!"_ A few more seconds of silence passed quickly before she knocked on their door. Lydia reached over and opened it, smiling with forced politeness. The officer spoke again, "Ellas as vure botaf ure robequi?"   
Lydia took a glance at Elliot and whispered, "It's all yours,  _liere."_  
"A-Allow me, governor," Abraham offered, rubbing his hands together anxiously. He turned to the impatient officer. "Oir cebon shetipri er.  _Fichtel_ shetipri."   
"Jou uise douvech," Elliot added, just for good measure.   
The lady gave the governor a suspicious glare, but, now knowing she was her superior, gave in with the mutter, "Vou kou robe."   
        The carriage door was slammed shut, and the rusty creak of metal and crunch of snow played out with a familiar tune as the gate was opened. Lydia laid back upon the cushions of the seat, smirking smugly to herself. " _Douvech,"_ she repeated tastefully. "Perhaps I should start calling you that, governor."  
"I'd certainly prefer that over  _liere._ If you must "call" me something, call me that instead."  
"Girls, please be on the lookout," Abraham warily reminded them as he shifted to the side, peeking out the window. "And I don't particularly mean just for finding the Woodrys. Chalin is a dangerous place, as I'm sure you're already aware." Mr Volleh looked at Elliot specifically and gave a subtle nod as he said this, "Please, be careful."   
Lydia gave an ungrateful sigh of boredom in response to his concern, and the governor diverted her gaze.  
"Of course, we will, Abraham."  
        The snow began to lighten its burden on the ground as they entered Chalin's northernmost province, Prueilim. A sign to the right of the carriage told them of the city they were entering, but Elliot failed to catch the name through the settling haze of winter. Abraham clutched the collar of his jacket tightly with his right hand and pulled the black curtain covering the carriage window to the side with his left. Elliot leant forward curiously; her mouth was drooped open to ask, but Abraham answered her before she could, "This is Aerile, Governor. I don't suppose you're familiar with the name?"   
She nodded, though she knew he did not notice. "Yes, yes, I am. It's quite a shame." Elliot looked over at him with a sympathetic glance but said nothing more.   
        The crunch of snow and gravel under the horses' rusty hooves and the carriage wheels was the only thing that notified an outsider of life. Aerile was completely deserted. While most people abandoned it willingly, the people who actually wanted to stay, if there were any at all, were forced to leave. The city was nothing more than ruins, a bad memory, a sour aftertaste, even to the people who hadn't lived there once. Especially to the ones who had.   
        Chalinian officials did not bother to rebuild the city, and, even if they had wanted to, the Rousettean officers and officials patrolling the streets of Chalin's provinces wouldn't allow them to. It was a constant reminder of their trickery, of their bribery. They wanted to let anyone who laid eyes on the once glorious city know that Rousette was in charge now. As such, the city lay wasting away under the snow, and none of them would be surprised if, come one spring, there lay nothing but fields.  
        Elliot hardly noticed Ballast circling above the carriage until it suddenly dove down, slamming itself against the glass window and cracking it in some places; not to mention, chipping some of the metal from its wings. The horses abruptly stopped after the sharp sound of impact, and Lydia opened the door and scooped up Ballast from the ground. It hardly mattered why the horses had stopped, whether from the noise or from the fact that they had actually reached their destination, because, indeed, they had arrived. Jausie was the city's name.  
"Where did you say we should look first, Abraham?" Elliot looked over at the fidgety man.   
"W-Well, I do know that Victor quite likes to see plays and things like that, s-so-"  
"A theatre?" Lydia interrupted, suddenly sitting upright. "We're going to a theatre?"   
"Even so, which one? Jausie is plentiful in theatres. I wouldn't be surprised if the first person we see is an actor."   
"Victor mentioned one in particular." Abraham quickly glanced to the left. "H-He said something of a _"_ Grey Owl Theatre" and that Oliver had taken him to see a show shortly after their wedding, which had been the first he had ever seen, of course, and-"  
"Get to the point, old man," Lydia scoffed.  
"M-My point is that Victor, since then, has had a love for shows and theatres and such. It would be best to ask around there; more specifically, G-Grey Owl."   
"Do you have any idea of where that might be? Prueilim is Chalin's biggest province, after all, and we've no clue if it's even in Jausie," Elliot noted, shifting in her seat in an attempt to rid herself of the restlessness aroused by sitting in one place for so long.   
"You should know, shouldn't you, Abraham?" Lydia asked. "You've lived in Chalin."   
Mr Volleh looked at Lydia with a trace of scrutiny. "Not in Prueilim, I haven't. I was born in Bluen, near the capital."  
"Oh," the creature simply stated, her eyes ablaze with some form of hostility. "Really?"   
"Honestly, Blackwater," Elliot snapped, finally rising to leave the carriage. "Shut your trap and stop provoking the man. We have a job to do, in case you've already forgotten."   
A smile slipped its way onto her face again. "I quite remember, Governor." Lydia stiffly turned toward Abraham with the same glint of rancour. "Shall we get going, then?"   
        A rush of bitterly cold wind swept over the three and filled the carriage, and, even through her thick coat and gloves, she could feel the chill settle onto her skin. She heard the grinding of metal as Ballast struggled to follow them and Abraham's audible shudder at the sudden change in temperature. One of the first things she realised was that almost no one walked the streets. A stray, water-stained newspaper scraped by on the paved, charcoal-colored streets as the wind picked up, adding to the city's deserted appearance.  
        The houses and various shops that laid before them gave the impression of neglectfulness on the owner's part, but they all knew that was not the case. This scene before them was of their doing, of their country's doing. Surely the plague of abandonment had not spread to Jausie; it was far enough away from the border for the citizens or officers of Rousette not to be a problem. To Elliot's right, Lydia stooped to pick up that very newspaper which had just blown by. She laughed, cold but amused.   
"Think they've one, do they?" Lydia hummed and showed the paper to Abraham and Elliot. "The duke's assassination is all over the paper. Hell, it's practically all they wrote about!"   
The governor snatched it away and ripped it in two. "I don't blame them for wanting him to die, but it's only made their situation worse."  
"You're not _with_ them, are you?" She cast a quizzical glance in Elliot's direction and tsked. "If you campaign that, your chance of reelection in a few years are slim,  _liere._ "   
Abraham didn't say a word.   
Elliot strode forward onto the sidewalk and ignored her question. "What's going on between the two countries is irrelevant right now, Blackwater. We're here with Mr Volleh to sort out a problem with his employees, not discuss politics."   
        Ballast let out an ear-piercingly loud, terrible screech and shot up into the air; the sound bounced around in the silence, echoing through the streets like a siren. A small gasp and a shuffling of bare feet on concrete came from behind them, and Ballast dove downward, barreling straight for the young boy like a small rocket. It was hovering around the child and prodding him with its beak before Elliot, Abraham, and Lydia had even realised that there was a boy there. "Ballast, come off him," Abraham ordered, extending his arm to the robotic raven.   
The boy swatted at the creature, whimpering in a high voice, "Esa! Esa!"   
        When Ballast finally retreated onto Abraham's outstretched forearm, the boy scuttled into the alleyway from which he had come in a half-walk half-crawl position, clutching something in his left hand. Elliot calmly and quietly walked over to the alley and peeked in, where the boy laid in the right corner in a fetal position against the brick wall, rocking back and forth and shivering. He couldn't have been older than ten. His dark hair was long and tangled, and the child's face faintly reminded Elliot of Merlin.   
        He saw her approach the entrance and pressed himself tighter against the wall if doing so was even possible. She heard him sulkily grumble and mutter, "Naiser! Naiser!" Elliot crouched a few feet away from the boy, while Abraham and Lydia watched from afar. Abraham looked concerned, but Lydia was predictably agitated, whether it be due to the distraction or that she wasn't the one getting attention.   
The governor hesitated. "Ellas as vure mapre?"   
The boy shrunk and frowned deeply, but he peeped, "Louis," in the particular Friman accent that Lydia had admired.  
"Chare vou virin er?"   
Louis nodded quickly.   
        Abraham seemed to be positively melting with sympathy for the youngster; his eyes were pleading like a child's when asking for something. If there was one thing Volleh liked more than money, it was children; he had some of his own to care for, after all, but it wasn't as if they could just scoop a child off of the sidewalk and expect everything to be fine. Lydia loudly cleared her throat, strutted up to Elliot, and rested a hand on her shoulder; the smile she flashed down at the child caused him to shrink even lower and quiver at the sight of it.   
"I do believe we have business to attend to, don't we, Governor?"  
"We do," she responded solemnly. "However-" she turned to Louis. "Chare vou conan ellas Grey Owl bauffen as?"  
"You don't  _really_ e-expect that child to cooperate with y-you, much less, actually  _k-know,_ right, Phorus?" Abraham suddenly spoke. "Nothing a-against him, of course," Mr Volleh quickly corrected himself, "But it is quite terribly cold, and I do think we should g-get moving." Perhaps Elliot had misread the sympathetic look in his eye, but Abraham's insistence on abandoning the boy was quite unlike him.  
"I agree," Lydia drawled; her smile was replaced with an indifferent scowl.  
        Louis remained huddled up in his alley corner, not moving except to shudder at the cold gusts of wind. Elliot sighed; her breath went up into the air in a great white puff. She stood, towering over the boy and encasing him in her shadow, and she turned and simply left without another look backward. Lydia smiled and hummed her approval as she strode beside Elliot. Abraham did not join them out of the alleyway until a few minutes later, and he was minus one overcoat. "I expect that's just one step further towards adoption, then?" Lydia groaned.    
"You gave him your coat?" Elliot turned but didn't even bother to sound surprised.   
Lydia slid off her own and stuck it out to Abraham with a vague air of disgust. "Take mine. I hardly need it, anyway."   
        Mr Volleh reluctantly took it, but he could only place it around his shoulders, as his arms were too large for the slim, dull grey sleeves that Lydia easily fit into. Then, all at once, it was silent again, minus the echoing of their footsteps against the concrete and the puffing of Ballast's exhaust. She heard Lydia grunt in discontent. "Do you even know where we're going?"    
"I do," the governor stated, stopping and holding up one-half of the newspaper she had torn to show the two others. Elliot pointed to a small corner on the back, which displayed the heading and, translated, means, "Bakery Burns Down After Out-Of-Control Fire".   
Abraham politely took the paper from her and read, "The bakery burned w-when the shop's e-elderly owner reportedly d-dozed off and left a f-fire unextinguished. The fire, w-which spread to the building n-next to it, Grey Owl Theatre, completely d-destroyed the building but left some o-of the th-theatre standing. However, the theatre has since b-been abandoned, as the o-owner does not have the f-funds to repair i-it."  
"What now, then?" Lydia asked, completely unfazed by the biting cold she was subjected to. "That lady told us Oliver had come to Chalin to look for a medicine he had run out of, so why are we considering a  _theatre_?"  
Elliot stuffed the newspaper back into her pocket. "If Dr Woodry was really looking for something like that, why would Victor have gone with him?"  
"Perhaps he just wanted to spend time with his husband, Governor. The mine is closed down, after all, so it's not like he had his job to worry about."    
"Perhaps. But he would be a fool to think people wouldn't go looking for him if he went missing the day after someone turned up dead in the place where he works."   
"You know, Governor, you tend to see the bad in people." Lydia's smile spread wider in delight.  
The two were so caught up in the tension of their argument that they hadn't noticed Abraham pacing behind them. "I don't see the harm in it," Elliot said, more aggressively than she'd intended.   
Lydia's grin remained plastered on her face. "Indeed. I do believe it will come in handy soon, Governor. Very soon."  
        Abraham stopped pacing.   
        They all retraced their steps and clambered back into the carriage, which had grown just as cold as it had outside. The horses were delayed in their response to Lydia's commanding knock, and, when they did finally come alive, they were slow in their journey deeper into Jausie. All the while, Lydia never got over whatever she found amusing; her smile stayed fixed, somehow conniving, waiting. It was not a normal, jovial smile. It was loathsome, a pernicious portent of something to come. Something she evidently fancied, which one associated with creatures such as herself knew was nothing good.   
        Curtains drawn, they began to notice more people crowding the edges of the streets. Dogs trotted alongside their masters, some, emaciated by starvation. A certain sort of gloom hung in the air around them; the kind of gloom that only follows a disaster, mutually felt by everyone, whether or not they knew what had happened. Again, Lydia sharply rapped against the side of the carriage. The horses' clunk of metallic hooves ceased; their frosted, silver bodies creaked as the wind blew against them.   
        Abraham generously opened the carriage door for the two women to exit and softly shut it when he himself had plopped into the wet snow. Some people turned to look at them quizzically. Most kept to whatever chore they had been doing, either unaware of the strangers' appearance or apathetic that they had turned up at all. However, what lay before them was all that mattered to the three. An empty lot, now reduced to cinders and brittle pieces of wood and brick, and a grand, old building; the left, top corner of which had broken away, leaving a large hole. A sign, which had once flashed a bright green judging by the tint of the glass words, spread across the middle, just above a dirty, thin carpet and an outstretched, matching green umbrella, read: "GREY OWL THEATRE". 


	4. City of Sorrow

        Every face they passed and which passed them were fixed with a sort of crestfallen, faraway gaze as each person stumbled through the day. The only noises that interrupted the utter silence of the town were the shrill shrieks and shouting of the children running along together in pairs, often aside haggard-looking hunting dogs or kicking ahead a torn, dirty soccer ball. There were no horses, no carriages, nor were there any birds of any sort; everyone travelled on foot and conversed only to those they could see. Even as the full moon began to blossom in the sky, the number of people did not abate.   
        This was the southern portion of Jausie, and it made sense that more people would be inhabiting this area; further down was the province of Bluen, where the capital lay. The capital was not in considerable danger of attack, but the duke would be sure to set them back in place should they stray too far from it. "Lydia," Elliot called.  
Lydia lazily looked over at her and drawled, "Yes, Governor?"   
"Take Ballast somewhere and send Merlin the message that we have arrived safely, will you?"   
Ballast obediently landed on Lydia's shoulder and gave a horrid squawk. She made a face of disgust.   
"As you wish," Blackwater gruffly obliged, despite so being disinclined to.  
After Lydia had taken Ballast away, Elliot turned to Mr. Volleh. "A word, Abraham?"   
The man gave a sudden, startling jolt as if he were frightened at the sound of her voice. "Y-Yes?"  
She studied him with concern before going on, "Are you sure you're alright? I know it's cold, but you've been stuttering quite a bit. Perhaps we should-?"  
"No," Abraham interrupted. "I appr-appreciate your concern, b-but I'm quite-" He stopped suddenly, and his face contorted with fear.  
"Abraham?"  
He gave another small jump. "On second thought, Governor, perhaps we should get a room in a motel, maybe?"   
"Yes," Elliot answered cautiously, eyeing him with suspicion rather than concern. "That's what I was about to suggest."  
Mr. Volleh gave the governor a timid, apologetic smile. "We can go on without Ms. Blackwater, can't we?"  
She pressed her eyes shut and inhaled deeply. "Yes, Abraham. She's quite capable of finding us on her own, and I'm sure she will in no time."   
Abraham noticed Elliot's perturbed look and said, attempting to be reassuring, "She  _is_ quite strange, isn't she?"   
        The single motel they had managed to find upon asking around was small, old, and looked to be on its last legs. The lobby was all but deserted except for the young, bored-looking man behind the receptionist's desk, who gave somewhat of a start when he saw them walk in. Immediately, the man asked, in a crude pronunciation of the words, "Chare vou pan Englese?"  
"Yes, w-we do," Abraham smiled at him as they drew nearer.   
The man slunk back into his chair, smiled weakly, and he answered, in an accent she did not recognise, "Good. Thank you."   
Elliot quickly glanced down at the nametag on his vest, which read, "Vincent X. Faust," but, before she could say anything, Vincent spoke peremptorily, "So, what'll it be? One room? Two?"   
"Two, please," Elliot requested, "but we'll be having another guest shortly. Her name is Lydia Blackwater; she'll know where to find us."   
"A'right," Vincent nonchalantly replied, digging around in the drawers beside him to fetch the keys for their rooms, and, whether or not he had even heard what she had just said, neither of them could tell. Vincent was just short of dropping them into Elliot's outstretched hand when he stopped. "Did you say 'Lydia'?"   
"Yes, I did," she impatiently responded. "Why?"   
"A woman by the same name already arrived, and she didn't ask for a room or anything." Faust finally gave the keys to Elliot and slowly sat back down in his seat. "She said something about already having a room and walked on by. Strange. It must've been one'a the others to've checked her in, but if she's with you.." He left it at that.  
"Of course." The governor handed Volleh his key. "Well, thank you," she looked back down at his nametag, "Vincent."  
        The strangely patterned carpet of a dull blue and the dirty walls all showed well the age and wear of the inn. Some places of the carpet were darkened by stains that had once been scrubbed desperately in feeble attempts to rid it from the once-vibrant blue but had since then made the floors of the inn their home. The walls had turned a musty orange since they had been erected, when they were no doubt pearly white, and reminded her of an old, water-stained photo. The smell of smoke and the leaves of a book that had been present ever since her arrival grew more pungent as she stalked down the corridor to her room.  
        It was silent except for the shrill, inhuman laughter that came from one of the rooms when she passed. A horrible squawk was uttered from whatever ungodly creature that lay behind the door as an attempt at language, and a frantic, concerned female voice spoke hurriedly afterward, "Oh, dear, dear, no- like  _this,_ see? Yes, yes, that's it!" Another piercing squawk, which started to sound more like a word this time, but Elliot had put enough distance between her and the room to miss what the woman said next.   
        A short stairwell which lay behind a door at the end of the hallway was Elliot's last hope at finding her room- number '307'. Other than Faust, Volleh muttering goodbye as he shuffled toward his room, and the strange woman with whatever creature she was housing, she had not seen or heard another living soul, and no other voices or appearances came after she had reached her room.  
        Elliot was surprised to find that her room was empty. She had been expectant on finding Lydia sitting their with that infuriating simper of hers, just dying to tell her of how she had managed to get inside the locked room without the key. However, she was not there, and, in lieu of the presence of her companion, Elliot was greeted with the acrid odor of dust as soon as the door swung open.  
        A particularly boisterous gale of wind that rattled the very rafters of the tremulous inn was what finally pulled Elliot out of her light, restless sleep. Still, Lydia was not there. The wind quickly picked up, howling as it rushed against the wooden exterior of the motel, and the gelid air seeped through the threadbare walls like water through paper. Mingling with the sharp scent of paper that still lingered, the bittersweet aroma of coffee wafted upward from the lobby. It seemed far too early for any of the other guests to be awake yet, but, nevertheless, she lifted herself from the bed and slid on her coat.  
        The governor stepped barefoot out into the hallway. Her grip on the candleholder shook as her body began to realize just how cold it had become in the building. However, when she reached the stairwell and began to descend, she heard two voices casually conversing. One was undoubtedly Vincent in that strange accent of his, and the other was the woman whom Elliot had heard in passing. Vincent's voice was the first to resume their conversation in a cautious tone, "So, what- uh- exactly, is.. it? I mean I can sort of see what it is, but-"  
Then came the woman's voice, borderline hysterical with the excitement of her presentation, "She's a Bopaumic Blueback, she is!"  
"I- I've never heard of-"  
"Of course you haven't! She's one of a kind, Doli is!"  
"What exactly-?"  
"I made 'er myself, mister! Only one of 'er kind, but I'm hoping that I can make s'more soon. That's why I'm traveling, see."  
"Ah- yes, well- how old are you? You look a little young t'be-"  
"Thirteen, mister!"  
"You're _thirteen_? And you're travelling alone?"  
"Yessir!"  
"With-" Vincent paused and continued with a heavy hint of antipathy, " _that?"_  
"Yes, mister," the girl repeated, audibly growing impatient.  
"Is it- she- safe?"  
The girl's voice recouped some of its former enthusiasm, "Of course Doli's safe, mister! Never bitten anyone in 'er life, mister!"  
        But as the lobby came into sight, bringing with it Doli and the young girl, Elliot doubted very much that Doli had indeed refrained from ever biting anyone. Doli was a dog of sorts, but she wasn't the strong, well-built hunting dog that one commonly finds tailing their masters in the streets. One could hardly call Doli a 'she,' and Elliot could now see why Vincent kept referring to the creature as an 'it'. Doli was not necessarily a dog, but, rather, she had the shape of a dog.  
        Like Ballast, Doli was comprised of metal, but the metal that made her was old, rusted. The name 'Blueback' suited her well, as the particular rust that had formed on the plates of her back took on a greenish-indigo hue, but it wasn't an altogether unpleasant sight. The two-inch teeth that had been sloppily welded into Doli's open-hanging mouth were crooked and dangerously sharp and jagged on the sides and looked as if one merely touching them would sustain a nasty cut. Doli's eyes were light bulbs that had been pushed inward further into its holey skull but held a sense of reckless ardour a dog should have nevertheless.  
        Visible cords that snaked in and around everywhere from Doli's lightbulb eyes to the ends of her dirty, sharply ended-paws all connected at a central point in the creature's body, where lay a mass of contrastingly polished pistons and other parts that Elliot didn't recognize. All were pulsating and puffing and acted much like a living creature's heart would. If the girl was truthful about her age and the fact that she had indeed made the dog-creature by herself, Doli was quite the achievement, crude though she was. And as if Doli could hear Elliot's thoughts, it turned with a terrible creak and stared straight at her.   
        The girl copied her pet's movement and looked at Elliot with an expression of curiosity and delight, and she positively teemed with excitement at the sight of her. Doli made no move except to turn around again and continue to stare at the small fire Vincent and the girl had lit in the fireplace. Vincent seemed to be relieved rather than enthused when Elliot walked into the room, extinguishing her candle, but he smiled kindly nevertheless.   
"Loretta was just telling me about her-" He paused but so quickly started up again that it went unnoticed. "-dog."  
"Loretta?" Elliot looked down at the girl.  
"Yes, ma'am! Loretta Marietta-Sokolov s'my name! My daddy's from the north-  _way_ north, see- which is why one of my last names is so strange, but my mom's from the south and her last name isn't so strange; I think it's actually pretty, but- oh!- my mother decided to hyphenate my last name because she didn't want to lose hers after marrying daddy," said Loretta all in one breath.  
        Elliot only began to take in Loretta's strange attire after her mind wandered during the girl's brief autobiography. She was wearing a sweater that was obviously not hers- perhaps her mother's or father's- because it was several sizes too big for her. The sleeves were rolled up many times but still came down a little past her elbows. The holes in the sweater had been patched with different coloured fabric and had the same look of shabbiness as her creation, Doli. Because of the ludicrously cold weather, Loretta additionally donned a thick, long scarf that matched the dark brown of her eyes perfectly and bore the initials "I.S." on one of the ends in a dramatic orange font. As her eyes trailed the scarf, she noticed that the front door was heavily locked.   
"Coffee?" Vincent held up a half-full pot of coffee and an empty mug.     
        The man nearly dropped them, however, when Doli sprang to her feet and uttered something that could hardly be considered a bark; it was like a hybrid of a painful yowl of a cat and the grinding of metal. Its mouth hung open, and its limbs were stiffly extended to the point where they seemed to lock into that impossibly straight position. Everything was silent until Faust actually dropped the mugs and pot, and they shattered on the ground. He was frozen in one position, much like Doli, and a loud pounding came from the other side of the door. The metal chains on some of the locks rattled with the force of the blows. For a fleeting, foolish second, the governor thought it was Lydia, but, then, she saw whatever it was through a gap in one of the curtained windows as it paced back and forth and immediately knew that it could not be her companion.  
        She saw it for- and only for- a quick second, a mere moment, but she was certain that her eyes were not deceiving her. The figure was hunched but stood far taller than her as it was. It was dark, so dark that it would have been hard to make out the creature in the mask of early morning if it weren't for the fact that it was walking right up against the window. She looked away and, as she did so, noticed how terrified both Loretta and Vincent were.  
"What the hell is that?" She asked frantically. She did not have anything to defend herself with- she was certain none of the others nor Volleh did-, and Lydia was not here.  
"I-I-" The bellhop stammered, absentmindedly rubbing a place on his coat.  
"G-Governor!" Volleh stammered as he clambered down the staircase. "What in God's name-"  
Loretta gasped, " _Doli!"_  
        Two things happened at once. The dog lurched forward with a terrible creak from its rusty joints, and the window shattered, sending splintered glass in every direction; however, Doli was not the one who broke the window. Whatever was on the outside had gotten in. Vincent clutched the desk behind him and made a choking noise, Loretta shrieked and scrambled away, but Elliot and Abraham, who muttered, " _Tuele.."_ under his breath, were rooted on the spot.  
        And "Tuele" was certainly the word for it. Dark, coarse hair covered a thick, scarred hide that had undoubtedly sustained more than a few blows in the past. Its claws scraped the floor, etching thin lines across the wood that would likely remain there for the rest of its time. Teeth much like Doli's but of the same material as a human's scraped against its gums, and a liquid dripped from its open-hanging mouth; whether it was blood or saliva was discernable. The creature's pointed ears lay flat across its head as it glowered at the room. It spotted Vincent, and, again several things happened at one time.  
"G _overnor_!"  
        There was Lydia on the other side of the shattered window, panting; her dark hair was awry. For once, concern was distorting her features, and she actually looked human. Doli struck the creature, penetrating its flesh with her knife-like teeth. It growled or snarled or roared or whatever it did and swung itself around, but Doli's grip was fixed. Volleh had already come out of his trance and taken Loretta to flee up the stairs. Elliot took the monster's momentary distraction to look at Vincent. All of the shock seemed to have left him and was replaced with a sort of determined resolution.  
"Who sent you?" He demanded.  
Lydia was gone now.  
        The creature stopped struggling. It saw Elliot, but it did not move toward her.  
"Who sent you?" Faust repeated. "It was Deben, wasn't it?"  
        The creature grabbed Doli's head with its large paw-like hands and pried her off, ripping its own flesh and muscle off with her. It stalked forward, throwing a chair in Elliot's direction to clear its way. It drew itself up to its full height and missed hitting the ceiling by a mere few inches.  
"Well, tell him to piss off." Although Vincent was trying to be brave, Elliot saw him shrink back a little. "It's mine. It was always mine, an' 'e isn't gettin' it back, understand?"  
          The creature slouched back down so that it was level with Vincent. It could have killed him with one swipe had it wanted to. It stayed calm, but Elliot knew something was coming. Lydia was coming; she could hear the distant footfalls as she ran. It opened its mouth to speak, but Lydia was there first.  
        The sound of the weapon being fired was deafening, but louder still was the monster's screech of agony. It slumped to the floor in front of the bellhop, still alive, but barely. Lydia climbed in through the window and took her place beside Elliot. "I believe you call these ' _Tuele'_ and that there is no English equivalent, correct, Governor?" The smug indifference had returned to her voice.  
It took a few moments for Elliot to find her voice again. "Correct."  
"I've always hated these things."  
        And with another squeeze of the trigger, it was dead.  
                  


	5. The Murdered and The Murderer

        Loretta Julya Marietta-Sokolov was more concerned for her beloved creation than her grievous injury. Abraham had already pried her away from Doli and taken Loretta to the hospital; however, the small hospital scarcely had any supplies at all and could only clean and wrap the wound, and, thus, a few hours later, they were sent back to the hotel.  
        Doli could hardly stand after her run-in with the _tuele_ when she attempted to protect all of them, and Loretta was simply poring and cooing over Doli's dented limbs and kept muttering to herself about how expensive it might be to buy new metal to repair them. Abraham then shuffled over to the girl and began telling her something, but Elliot was keen on hearing what the hell Vincent knew about this and paid them no mind.  
        Lydia calmly gazed down at the corpse and remained silent throughout nearly all of their conversation.  
"What the hell was that, Faust? Do you know what that was?"  
"Yeah. I-I do."  
"Well?" She said impatiently.  
"I'm no stranger to 'em. Miss Blackwater said that there was no English equivalent, right? I wondered why they always called 'em ' _tuele'."_  
Elliot waited for Vincent for continue, for she was in too much of a shock to know that they even existed.  
Vincent seemed wary of how to start. "One of 'em attacked me when I had first arrived 'ere. I was camping in the forest 'cause, well, I didn't 'ave a 'ome. It stole somethin' from me and just ran off, but I managed to 'unt it down with the 'elp of some couple nearby and got it back."  
"Couple?" Elliot was suddenly brought back down to earth. "What did they look like?"  
"They were two guys- one was a blonde, pretty tall, you know- and the other was shorter but an 'ell of a lot stronger. I think 'e was dark-haired, maybe black, but it might'a been brown."  
"Did they give you their names?"  
Vincent was clearly put off a little, but he told her nevertheless, "No, no, they didn'. I didn' stay with 'em for very long; they jus' let it go after we got my-" he stopped suddenly, apparently not wanting to tell them what it had stolen, but Elliot did not care.  
"Do you know where they are now?"  
Lydia seemed attentive.  
"No, but the place where they found me isn' very far from 'ere. Jus' off the road and a li'le bit into the fores', and I've been workin' 'ere ever since because of the war; I've had an 'ell of a 'ard time tryin' to get back 'ome."   
Elliot was a little crestfallen at his words. "This was before the war?"   
"A li'le before, but I don' doubt they're still 'ere."   
She sighed. "I see. I think we'll have to leave now, Blackwater, Abraham."  
"Where will we go, Governor?" Lydia finally spoke now, and she was closer to Elliot.   
"I don't think the theatre will be of much use to us, but I think we should check there before we move further into the Jausie, just in case."  
Lydia smiled. "Good choice, Governor. Mr. Volleh, will you be joining us?"   
He seemed not to have heard her question for a moment, but he stood, his chin buried in his pearly white cravat, and answered Elliot with a melancholy air as if Lydia had not been the one to ask. "Y-Yes, Elliot. Of course, I'll be joining you. This is all because of me, is it not?"   
Lydia glanced down at Loretta and bent forward. "And what about you, girl?"   
"What are you doing, Blackwater?" Elliot intervened. "She's not-"  
But Loretta had already jumped up with a sort of ecstasy and exclaimed, "Can I really go with you?"   
"I believe she should, Governor."   
         Elliot had begun to believe that when Lydia says someone should accompany them or will be important to them, they usually are. How Lydia knew or why she even bothered to tell Elliot if it would happen anyway, the governor did not know. She still couldn't stop thinking of Lydia when she appeared behind the window- how human she looked, how vulnerable she probably felt then, how powerless, not like when she was around Elliot or Abraham. Lydia knew the fear she instilled in the two, in anyone who saw her. She knew her influence. But that was new. That creature did not know, nor did it care- it could not care. Lydia was more human than she dared to realise, and, whether or not she knew it, that scared her the most.   
         Now they had a child on their hands, who knew not of what they were in the country for or what would happen to her by the time she realised what her injury actually meant. It was not the flying glass that had cut her, it was the monster's ferocious talon that had cut her. Abraham knew what it meant, as did the two women, but Loretta did not. She did not know the stories nor of the fates of the people who played their unfortunate parts, perhaps like the monster who attacked them did. Abraham promised to tell her later, after they had finished their business in Chalin, and so it went.   
         Abraham stayed with Loretta and Doli to watch over them in the carriage, while Elliot and Lydia went inside the Grey Owl Theatre. The door was unlocked and gave no resistance to being pushed open. And there was that hideous stench again, which always came before something dreadful ever since she had been introduced to Lydia. There was a patch of snow on the ground where it fell in from the broken ceiling, and the inside was just as cold as it was outside. Rotting beams from the fire-carved ceiling lay in waste upon the floor. There was an entrance to a hallway to the right of the lobby, where the stage was, so they went through.   
         The smell had become ever stronger with the addition of rotting food and stale dust. There were about thirty rows of seats, each a little higher than the one below as they curved into a sort of half-circle around the stage. There were hovering balconies strewn about the wall where the richest and most important people used to be entertained. Elliot's footsteps echoed throughout the spacious, empty theatre as she walked upon the wooden floor of the stage. She looked around. It was not dark, for the hole in the roof of the lobby had spread somewhat into this section over time as it decayed, and some of the seats were showered and wet with snow. Although Elliot had never been her previously, she could tell that the theatre once held a certain grandeur, and it was no wonder why Victor used to love coming there with his husband.   
         The back of the stage was free from the effect of the fire on other parts of the building. It was dark back here, as the curtains had not been drawn, and the lamps had all burned out. Elliot and Lydia could only barely make their way around all of the costumes and props that had been dropped in the desperation to evacuate the building. When they did, there was a door, behind which was a small room barely large enough for five people. In the room was a dusty desk with haphazardly sorted papers and two books stacked upon the other. There was a cup of cold coffee which had sat there, perhaps, since the fire. They both advanced. Elliot looked through the papers, and Lydia took up the books.  
         The papers were all sketches of costumes that the ladies working there wore and props for the various plays. The sketches were expertly drawn- too well for the sketcher not to have studied the art. She sifted through them for a signature, but, instead, she found a note, which read:  
"Delilah, my love, I heard the news and simply cannot express my elation in mere words. As such, I would like you to meet me near the cafe that you adore, for I, too, have news to tell you.  
                                                                                                                                     - Victor Woodry."  
"Blackwater, look at this." Elliot handed her the note.  
She read it quickly. "So much for 'my love'."  
"Yes, I wish there were a date. I'd be able to tell if it were before Victor and Oliver wed."  
        Elliot noticed that the books Lydia was looking through were called "The Basics of Sewing" and "Rousettean-Chalian Monsters and Folklore", which seemed to be newer than the first. The Governor looked through the papers, but there were no more notes to Victor's lover. Lydia plucked something from between the folklore book's pages and held it before her.  
"Oh,  _dear."_  
"What is it?" Elliot set down the drawing she was admiring.   
         Lydia showed her the newspaper clipping that was dated about four years prior. The heading told of a woman by the name of Delilah Krau who was murdered outside of a local restaurant that had been out of business for ten years. The perpetrator was unknown, but the prime suspect was Victor Woodry, who, the article said, worked at the same theatre Delilah performed at.   
"Do you think he did it?" Lydia asked.  
"I don't know," Elliot said. "It would give them the motive to flee to Rousette, but I don't know." Elliot turned to Lydia and asked on some sort of whim, "Do you?"  
She smiled, seemingly flattered. "Oh, no. Not this time. No one knows except the murdered and the murderer."  
The moment of fleeting affection Elliot suddenly bore towards Lydia fizzled into frustration.  
"I found this next to the article, Governor." She held up a picture.  
"Who is it?"  
"I believe it is Delilah, Governor."  
        Delilah was astonishing. The picture had been taken outside on an autumn day, and she wore a dazzlingly dark green, flowing dress which complemented her olive skin tremendously well. She held a bouquet of apple-red roses in her hands which were level with her torso. Her dark, curly hair was the same shade as her sparkling eyes, and all came together to make a smiling, beautiful young woman. It must have been Victor who took the picture, as she was glowing with the radiance that only love can conjure. Lydia tucked the picture and article back into the book.  
"Gather the papers and books if you please; I think we've been in here long enough," said the governor.  
     Elliot and Lydia walked together back to the carriage with an oddly heavy heart, as if something dear had been taken from them. The snow had lightened up a little since the incident at the hotel, and the sun was starting to peek out from behind the distant mountains. Doli was waiting in front of the carriage like a dog guarding its young. She let them pass and enter before jumping into it herself. Abraham and Loretta had apparently been telling each other jokes or comedic stories, as Loretta was smiling broadly, and Volleh had the wet eyes of one who had been laughing quite a bit.  
Nonetheless, he was serious enough to ask the question, "Alright, Elliot? Did you find anything?"  
"Blackwater," Elliot said.  
Lydia revealed the books and papers.  
The governor continued, "We found these books and sketches, which were drawn, we believe, by Victor Woodry."  
"Victor?"  
"We also found this note," Elliot and Lydia sat down across from Abraham, on either side of Loretta. "which is addressed to a woman named Delilah Krau." Lydia handed him the note, and Elliot spoke again, "Is that name familiar to you?"  
"N-No, it doesn't. I don't believe Victor e-ever spoke of her."   
"And I suppose you wouldn't know if Oliver knew?"  
"No."  
"Of course. We weren't expecting you to. We simply have to be cautious, you see."   
"Yes," Abraham started. "I understand completely."  
"Well, if we're done here- would you mind, Blackwater?" The governor ordered.  
"Not at all," Lydia obediently answered, standing and leaving the carriage for a few moments.   
"Where are we going, Elliot?" Loretta chirped.  
Lydia came back and sharply rapped twice on the door of the carriage; at which the machines pulling it trotted on.   
"It is the place-," Elliot stopped and pulled out the news article. "It is the place where Delilah Krau was believed to be murdered by Victor Woodry, but, of course, they never really knew. Evidently, Victor stated in his note that it was Delilah's favourite restaurant, and that was the planned meeting place for the two when Victor said he had news to share with Delilah." She tucked the article back into the book. "We are going to the Hummingbird's Harvest."


	6. Broken Glass Within A Sea of Black

         Ballast returned before they came to their destination, so they had to stop the carriage mid-way to let the fowl in. The one who had received the message was not the one to respond. It was Ruth, Elliot's sister. She hastily pronounced Merlin's and her and her children's own wellbeing before moving on to her point. Ruth informed the Governor that she was going to ask if Maribelle would keep her and her children for the time being, as, she added, "the butler" seemed to be unwelcoming toward the young ones, and she felt that they would be better off with Maribelle's own, anyway. She did not explain why she did not just return home, which Elliot still yearned to know, but, instead, gave her goodbyes, and there the message ended.  
"Maribelle? Well, why on earth is she going to Maribelle?" Abraham wondered aloud; for, you see, Maribelle is Abraham's wife of a grand twenty-six years, and they love each other dearly.   
"God knows," Elliot was the one to respond. "She's been avoiding going back home, but God only knows why."   
"You don't think it has anything to do with her husband, do you, Governor?" Lydia was the speaker this time.   
Elliot knew Lydia was right, as she remembered Ruth needing to speak to her about Harry, but she simply added in an undertone, "Can't believe she's leaving our mother alone with him."          
         The conversation ended in the type of silence that everyone wants to break but no-one knows how to, so they all stewed in that silence and left each other to their isolated thoughts, unique to one another. Lydia's thoughts were a special case. However, they shall never be known to anyone else but the conjurer, such is the nature of our thoughts, but we can say that they were not of anyone in the carriage, nor were they good. The only person's thoughts we can be sure of, as the one telling the tale, were Elliot's, and they were buzzing rapidly within the confines of the dark dome which is the skull, producing nothing and helping no-one.  
         The carriage quite literally lurched to a stop and quite literally shook everyone out of their thoughts, and the loud thump and scream were more than enough to extract the group from the wobbling carriage to see what had happened. But, when they got out, there was nothing. It was just them, the crawling fog, and the horses, stamping and pawing at the ground with their copper-stained steel hooves. Elliot stepped closer to the beasts and recoiled in disgust.  
"Blackwater, is that-?"  
"By God-" Abraham started.  
"It is," Lydia answered.   
Loretta yelped and jumped back.   
        On the frosted, hard dirt path, lying by one of the machine's long, silver legs, which was stained with the excretion, was an elk. Its body was intact, except for the lower portion, which had been severed and was nowhere nearby. It only retained its chest, one leg, its glorious head that was prideful even in death, and the entrails which were visible but had stayed dutifully attached. But who had screamed? There was no-one nearby; the path was deserted of all but them and this unfortunate, mutilated creature. And then, what had done the elk this terrible deed? Although the sun was rising, the sky was dark, and the snow began to fall again.   
         The hooting of an owl echoed through their ears, and the cold air seemed to be reinforced so that it constricted around their bodies like an anaconda around a tapir and tightened around their throats like a noose around a thief's. A smell hit their nostrils, but, whether it was from the elk's corpse or from something else, none of them could agree anytime afterwards.   
         Lydia offered to take the chore of moving the beast. No-one questioned whether she could do it by herself, and the remaining three clambered back inside the carriage, which, previously warmer, seemed barely more welcoming than the frost outside, and a moment or so later, Lydia joined them. She tapped on the wall of the structure, and it shuddered into movement.   
        When they entered the province of Bluen hours later, it was not deserted, but bustling with life. It was a complete contradiction of the gloomy underside of Chalin that they had just left, and the moon had hidden itself under the mountains to allow the sun to blossom in the bright sky. It had stopped snowing, but the pristine snow was reserved by the frigidness of the air above and the frozen ground beneath. The carriage stopped to the side of the swarming road.  
        Elliot and Lydia alone left the carriage with the inclination of asking where the Hummingbird's Harvest might be. The first person who was willing to speak with them and who did not recoil upon realizing her status as Governor of a portion of Rousette was a very young woman, who was clutching a baby that couldn't have been more than a week old. She spoke English fluently but had an accent that wasn't native to the two countries. "Hummingbird's Harvest? That place was shut down when I was just a little girl."  
"We know it's been shut down-"  
"Valerie."  
"Yes, Valerie, we know it's been shut down for quite some time, but, if you could, just give us the location of the lot."  
"Oh, well, it's right over there." Valerie pointed to her left, and their eyes fell upon a gated lot. "They tore down the building and built a cemetery for that poor woman who- well, I'm sure you know the story."  
"Do you know something about it by chance?"  
"Nothing more than any other person, I'm afraid."  
"Well, do you have the time to talk about it? It is a case that intrigues me."  
Lydia smiled at the woman politely.  
"Certainly I do. It's cold out here; would you mind if we moved somewhere else?"  
        Valerie led Lydia and Elliot to a café a few paces away, where Elliot bought the woman tea. The first thing Valerie said was that everyone knew about it, as Chalin wasn't all that big of a country, and the murder rate before the war was low. Even if she couldn't recognize Elliot as Governor of Fluie, she could tell she wasn't from here; most people knew about the case, she repeated, but refrained from speaking of it. Elliot nodded good-naturedly for her to continue. Valerie cradled her child closer to her chest as if it would be taken from her.  
        She started with the fact that they had, indeed, ruled out Victor Woodry as a suspect. Instead, they investigated another man by the name of Oliver Abachus, who did not work at the theatre like the other two, but who had been seen with the couple on a number of occasions and was assumed to be the couple's friend. He was tried and found guilty, but both Victor and Oliver disappeared shortly after. The case was dropped a year later, and the two were never seen again in Chalin. They were presumed dead.  
        Valerie said that this was around the time when the relationship between the two countries became precarious, and most in Rousette never heard of the incident, as friendly communications were cut off. She informed them with an oddly sorrowful voice that this was the extent of her knowledge on the subject, and she apologized after telling them that she couldn't offer more.  
        Just as they were to depart, Elliot thanked the woman, reassured her that her information was more than enough, and wished her and her child well. When they went back to the carriage to retrieve Abraham and Loretta, she noticed that Ballast was gone and assumed that Abraham had just sent a message to Maribelle and thought nothing more of it. Loretta was not inside the carriage but was on the other side of it, enjoying the bitter winds that swept across her face. Elliot was surprised that Doli hadn't locked up yet, especially as damaged as she was, and could only conclude that it had something to do with Loretta's skillful work on the dog-like machine.  
      The cemetery, which was renamed "The Llorón Cemetery," was a garden full of thorns. At the gated entrance of the garden was a plaque that bore the title of the area. Several more gravestones had been added ever since Delilah's death and were added somewhat haphazardly. Some were lopsided as if one had tried to remove them but gave up half-way through; some were covered in vines, or the name was obscured in some way, whether it be scratched out, missing the piece that bore the name, or simply worn to the point where it was intelligible. Delilah's grave was no exception, and it was Lydia who found it first.  
        The granite slab was cracked in the right corner, but it was adorned by roses; roses alike the ones the woman was holding in the picture. No other grave had roses to call their own. Elliot picked up the bundle of flowers. There was no name, no tag, no words of sorrow or of consolation that the living were doing fine. Lydia wrapped her hand around Elliot's and tugged the bouquet away, resting it back down upon the gelid earth.  
She said one thing before falling into silence, "It is a gift to the dead, and it will stay that way."  
        Abraham was kneeling before a grave of his own, looking submerged in his thoughts, so she left him alone. Loretta stood motionless and voiceless beside the Governor, and Doli, even, carried a sort of melancholy air. Elliot, however, felt nothing. She felt that she should not be tearful; she felt an odd sense of contentment standing in front of this headstone. She realized all at once that nothing was here and that they needed to leave, but, then, she noticed Lydia was watching her; not menacingly, not harshly, just a gaze; a gaze that was not entirely focused on her. They each shared a terrified look.  
"Do you feel it?" Lydia said.  
Elliot felt it. "I do," she answered. Then, "Where is it?"  
This was all Lydia said, "It is with us."  
"Should we leave?"  
Lydia's expression relaxed, but the Governor didn't think it was exactly out of relief. She thought about it for a few moments. "No. I think it will be better if we stay."  
        Elliot did not know how long they waited at the cemetery, but they all seemed to know that they were, indeed, waiting for something. Lydia inspected the grave more closely and called for the Governor after she had knelt and pulled something from beneath the snow. It was, again, a note. The words had been obscured by the moisture of the snow, but one could still read them, albeit with difficulty. It bore two words: "I'm sorry". There was no name, and the handwriting did not match the note Victor wrote when Elliot plucked it from the book to check.  
        The sky had grown dark again as the snow began to barrel from the sky harder than ever. The thick, fluffy clouds blocked the winter sun better than the mountains on the horizon could ever wish to, and, finally, they left the Stygian cemetery when Loretta began to shiver. Lydia had no dissent of Elliot taking the note, and she herself knew not why she had. There was a hazy air about her thoughts, as if she were doing everything mechanically, as if she were being told what to do, although she knew she was not.  
        Elliot looked to the sky and noticed that it was dark again and that the small pieces of hail that hammered the earth looked like broken glass within a sea of black.


	7. In The Shade of The Rose Bushes

        In the shade of the rose bushes, sitting placidly on a wooden moth-eaten bench, was a middle-aged woman, dressed in clothes as black as the sky above her. The garden in which she sat was bustling with people; those simply passing through or those also dining on the tables similar to hers passed her by or paid her no mind, as she was just another woman in their eyes.  
        A tea pot sat in the middle of the table, and she watched it as the smoke rolled from the spout and dissipated into the cool spring air. She seemed to be waiting. The crepe lying in front of her remained untouched on its plate. She could smell the sweet, glazed fruit as the scent wafted upward. Half of her face was hidden in the shade of her hat. She seemed to be waiting, but she did not seem to be impatient.  
        Then, a man stepped into her view. She lifted her head and smiled. The man before her was young, younger than herself. His hair was of the overwhelmingly common shade of light brown but was pleasing to look at nonetheless. His eyes were neither as light nor as dark as his hair and gave the appearance of being grey at the first glance, but, in reality, they were a dull blue. He had a naïve look about him, sort of child-like, and could have easily been mistaken for the woman's young son. This was the scene that took place:  
        The man sat across from the lady and waited for her to speak. She poured more tea into her own cup that had been drained and refilled several times before. She spoke.  
"You're late."  
The man looked startled in the way that only his innocent look could manage to pull off. He looked down. "I know. I'm sorry."  
"I know what you are." The pleasantness never left her voice.  
"I know you do."  
She smiled and poured tea into his cup. "So, I want you to tell me something, dear Alexander."  
He looked back up. She was staring intently at him.  
"Where is he?"  
He leaned forward as if being watched and whispered, "Who?"  
Less calmly, she answered, "Don't be stupid, Deben. You know who I'm talking about. Vincent. Xaviour. Whatever you like to call him. Where is he?"  
His innocent look dropped when the name hit his ears. "Vincent? He got what was coming to him, Maribelle."  
"What he stole from you was not yours to begin with, and you know that, Deben. You know where he is. Where is he?"  
The man called Alexander Deben thought for a moment. "What do you have?"  
Maribelle seemed caught off guard. "What do you mean?"  
"You can have your brother back, 'Belle, if you give me something in return. You know how we are." He grinned a toothy smile. "We like gifts."  
Maribelle's sweetness had fled now, and she seemed to teeter on the idea of shouting at him. "I don't have to give you anything, Deben. Sparing you now is a gift enough, is it not?"  
He leaned forward, nearly spilling his tea with his elbow, and growled in a low voice, "You think you're some strong _monster_ -slayer, don't you?" He was gritting his teeth together, seething; his demeanor had changed completely. "The Volleh name is wasted on you, _vou mispuck._ You're only strong because you're too little of a threat to us to bother with."  
"Am I?" People had begun to stare now. "Is that what your son thought?"  
Alexander's face hardened. "He was young. He made a mistake. That was not you; it was him."  
"Blaming your son's death on himself, huh, Deben?"  
Alexander crushed the tea cup with his fist, but the pain of it did not seem to register in him.  
        The moon grew fuller in the sky, and, as it did so, people began to leave the garden. Soon, it was just them, and a drunk man sleeping on one of the benches. Deben did not answer her. He knew that it was not his son's blunder which had killed him; it was her and her own talent. He had been so certain that she would not win; he would've been so proud of his son of killing a fiend- the wife of his enemy, no less- from the Volleh family, that wretched line of hunters.

The beast was on his knees now. He could still feel the stock of the rifle striking the side of his face and the crunch of his bone as it made impact. Blood dripped onto the dusty ground. Maribelle grabbed the collar of his coat with rough, gloved hands and brought his face level with hers. Alexander spat at her face, and she wiped it off with the side of her glove. "I don't have to give you anything, Deben," she repeated. "Tell me where Vincent is."  
        A small clunk of metal diverted her attention. Behind her, a rusty, silver raven landed on the table, sending puffs of black smoke into the air with a small popping noise. Maribelle dropped Alexander and picked up her rifle. He still refused to speak. She stuck out her forearm, and the old raven hopped on, emitting a screeching, wheezing noise before it fizzled into a voice, which said:  
        "Maribelle, dear friend, I know you're busy at the moment with your children and all, but, well-" The woman, whom she recognized as Ruth Lucan, paused, "well, I don't know exactly how to say this, but I need your help. Would you- Would you allow me to stay with you? My children and I? It's Harry- I've explained him to you-" Ruth seemed to choke up. "I- well- I'm sorry for the inconvenience. Please send your answer. Quickly."  
        Maribelle Volleh sighed and recorded her response to her friend. Ballast flew off, and she then turned to Alexander, who remained on his knees before her. She coughed lightly and tucked some of her dark hair behind her ear. She knelt down to look at him and said, dangerously, "Stay out of this country and go back to the slums of that rathole you call a home, Chalinian krelaud." She thought, for a moment, to spit on his face like he did hers, but she refrained and stood up. What he did was a characteristic of the lowliness of his kind, and, after all, she wouldn't want her own children to do the same in the future.  
        The woman stood, again, and walked away, and he looked after her with all the malice of a captured wolf.


	8. Ever-Falling Rain

        The Dukes of Rousette are not elected, nor have they ever been. It is not a dictatorship, but, inevitably and like all other countries, Rousette and her people have had their fair share of corrupt leaders. The late Duke's brother was by no means a bad man; he was simply not fit to be in office, and everyone could see that. The Duke had one other living relative besides this unable brother, and that was his widowed wife. She would be only the second female leader that the country has had in the entirety of its long history.  
        Her name was Duchess Charlotte Rousseau, and never has there ever been a better-suited leader for the country; that much was ascertained when she was given the chance to show what she could do. Royalists rejoiced. She was believed to be a distant member of the founding family of Rousette, such is the legacy that her maiden name carries. Many people believed that the turning point of the war occurred when Duchess Rousseau came to power, and it certainly seems so.  
        The Duchess was an honest woman, contradictory to most politicians, and she had a kind-hearted nature, which brought about both triumphant victories and disappointing failures, but which also assured that she was loved amongst her people. Even a small group of people in Chalin favoured the Duchess, but it was just that: only a small group.  
        Charlotte- whom we will refer to as Duchess, Duchess Rousseau, or simply Charlotte- knew completely of Elliot Phorus and Lydia Blackwater, and also knew of Abraham Volleh, the most dominant noble in perhaps all of Rousette, who lived in Chlealiva, the province of roses. Duchess Rousseau knew all of this owing to her good friend Maribelle Volleh, who seems to be the linking point of communication between the Governor and the Duchess.  
        It was this communication which forced Elliot back into Rousette, as Duchess Rousseau wished to speak with her. Loretta refused to cross the border and had to be dropped off back at the hotel, alone with Doli and Vincent, and Elliot and Lydia were back where they had started.  
        The Duchess did not hold their meeting in the- for lack of a better word- mansion, where she lived, but in the courtyard of the house, which was painted vibrantly with lush green grass and a variety of roses, each bush a different colour, all imported from Chlealiva. You see, winter had passed, and spring had taken control of the weather, and, thus, it rained just as often as it had snowed; however, the Duchess figured they had a little time of dryness to take a stroll in the garden just described.  
"I do hope you understand, Governor," the Duchess finished.  
Elliot was stunned at how she thought that might have been a burden. "No- Well- I mean, of course, I do. Yes, thank you, in fact. That will be a tremendous help, Duchess."  
"It is no problem, Governor. I quite understand what you're doing, and I especially appreciate that you're helping such a close friend of mine. However, Fluie needed a Governor in your absence, did it not? He will be temporary, of course. You may resume your position when you return."  
"Of course it did. Thank you, Duchess," Elliot repeated.  
"And Lydia," Charlotte serenely turned to the aforementioned person, who seemed oddly humble in this woman's presence. "I also appreciate your help with the case and your lifelong aid to the Governor." She smiled; this smile was the opposite of Lydia's. It was gentle and sweet and contrastingly showed her youth and experience.  
"Duchess Rousseau?"  
"Yes, Governor?" She turned back to Elliot.  
"All of these roses are from Chlealiva, correct, Duchess?"  
"That's right." She turned her back to face the abundant rose bushes and said whimsically, "They're lovely, aren't they?"  
"Yes, yes, they are. What is the name of that particular rose?" Elliot stopped before a bush brimming with the blooms of apple-red roses, struck with a kind of awe.  
"I believe those are called _Rosa pinguis_ or, if you'd prefer the common name, Strawberry Roses. Why? Do you like them, Elliot?"  
"Where exactly in Chlealiva did they come from?" She stood again. These roses were identical to the ones laid on Delilah's grave.  
"Oh, well, let's see-" The Duchess thought for a moment. Her blonde hair shone even in the dull light of a rainy afternoon and delicately cupped her pale cheeks. "I believe it was Fortêu, Governor."  
Distant thunder rumbled like the growling of a cat.  
"Will you pardon us, Duchess?" Elliot lowered her head. "We have some business we must attend to."  
Her beautifully green eyes were dulled with placidity. "Of course. Contact me should you need anything, Elliot."  
"I will." Elliot bowed to the Duchess, and, for only the second time in her life, Lydia bowed, too.          
         Merlin was waiting for them with Abraham and his wife, Maribelle, when they returned inside from the courtyard. Ruth was not there, and Maribelle explained her absence with the excuse that Ruth was watching all four of Maribelle's children and her two own, Matthew and Tara, Elliot's nephew and niece. The Governor asked if Ruth had told her why she didn't want to go back, and she answered, with a bit of hesitation, that Harry had been arrested on account of spousal abuse but hurriedly reassured Elliot that Ruth and her children were okay. Her mother, also, was fine and temporarily living with them. Elliot did not ask Abraham if he knew, for they had another problem.  
        However, these events occurred two days before. Now, she lay upon the muddy ground as the dagger-like raindrops hit her eyelids. She opened her eyes. The carriage was toppled over to her left; the horses' metallic exterior was dented and broken in some places, and they lay motionless. The trees loomed above her higher, higher, higher than the sky it seemed, casting shadows like the strings of fishing rods into the murky waters of the quivering forest.  
        The blood seeped from her side like molasses rolling down a stack of fluffy pancakes, and the sky began to spin faster than the needle of the compass her father always kept in his coat pocket. She blinked rapidly, and it stilled again. Her dark skin was covered in the sloppy mud that reminded her of the thin oatmeal her mother used to make for her and Ruth, and she smiled despite knowing how much it disgusted her. Elliot's smile fell. The foliage grew fuzzy, and she began to feel lightheaded. A strong panic suddenly seized her.  
        The Governor tried to roll over and stand up, but it seemed as if she was sinking, as if the mud was holding her there, as if all of her strength had been sapped by the filth of the road. She remembered how the carriage crashed, what had crashed it, but everything after that was a blur. She did not know where any of the others were or if they, too, were injured. Then, she heard something approach. A wet, hurried sloshing noise came toward her, and the tips of her fingers and her stomach prickled with unease after every quick step. She heard rapid breathing, and someone calling her, "Governor?"  
        Elliot recognized this voice. She had not been with them on the carriage, but this voice was unmistakably Loretta's. However, Loretta, to the extent of the Governor's memory, had never called Elliot by her proper honorific, and, being the young girl she was, in their short time together, had only ever called her "Elliot". She thought this a bit strange, but she attempted to call out, anyway. She only managed to elevate herself and roll on her side a little.  
"Governor?" The voice said again.  
        It was then she knew that this was not Loretta. Her panic intensified, and her breathing came out shallow and hitched. Elliot could not move, nor did she try to any longer. The steps came forward once, twice, then there was a click and a booming noise that rang in her ears even after it stopped. She flinched and shut her eyes. There was another, adjoined with a terrible screeching noise, and another, followed by a cracking, squelching noise. The footsteps and screeching began to fade as the creature ran away through the rain. Another click and a gunshot, but this was simply to keep it away and hit a tree.  
        Arms wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her up with difficulty on the perpetrator's part. They were not gentle or warm arms, but she knew they were friendly by the white lace of Maribelle's gloves. The wound on her side was re-agitated, and it seemed to lock up her joints with the burning, stinging of it. Maribelle, after seeing that the Governor was in an alright position, began to take staggering steps back the way she came, seeming to gain a sense of urgency with every step she took. The ever-falling rain kept on its course, sharply colliding with them without the slightest hint of the intent to stop.


	9. The Fate of Francis Phorus

        Jeanne Phorus visited him on the first and last of every month, just to make sure he wasn't lonely in this lightless, dreary building. She pitied him, as this was now his permanent home until the day he died. She was his wife, after all. It was her job to look after him. Ruth was with her this time, and she was sure that this would make him, at least, a little happier. This was the first time in years that her daughter agreed to visit her father, for Ruth found the asylum to be both physically and emotionally oppressive.  
        Francis Phorus's condition only seemed to be degrading as the days passed. He hadn't see his daughters in years until now, and, at that, only one of them. He could hardly recognize Ruth. She had grown very much since he last saw her as a teenager, and she had blossomed into motherhood long since then. He knew he had grandchildren and longed to see them, but he knew, as much as Jeanne and Ruth loved him, that it would not be permitted.  
        He was slipping deeper into his dementia, and they knew not if, when they next visited, he would even know their names. Francis did not care. In fact, he longed to forget. He longed to forget what he did as Governor of Fluie. He longed to forget what made him do those things. He longed to forget everything, even if it meant forgetting the ones he loved, that he had ever loved someone at all.  
        He wished they would stop visiting, wished that they wouldn't make this harder for him, but he couldn't bring himself to tell them to stop. Deep down, Francis wanted to see his wife. He wanted to see her badly, wanted to see her every day, in fact, for he did not know if this particular visit was the last he would ever see of her. He did not know if this visit would be the last time he remembered who she was.  
        This was why he wanted them to stop. He wanted them to leave. He knew it was selfish, but, damn it, if there's ever a time to be selfish, it's when you're losing your mind. If they didn't choose to stop on their own, he would make it so they didn't have a reason to visit. This was how Francis decided it was time for him to die. He was sure of it; he was so sure, in fact, that he had even taken the time to diligently plan it out.  
        The room in which he slept was on the second floor of the asylum. He would tell the busy nurses that his back was being too bothersome to walk up the stairs unaided. Knowing his providers were too occupied to help him exclusively, he would request a cane. Thus given this cane, he would travel to his room, smash the single window with the tool, and leap to the paved street below. He was old and brittle; it would not take even this to kill him. Francis would see, however, that this plan would fail.  
        On the day he would jump, a week after his wife and daughter visited him, he found that he had another visitor. His caretaker told him that the woman's name was Maribelle Volleh. Francis knew the woman's name but had never truly seen her in person. He pondered the reason she had of visiting him. She was as beautiful as could be expected of an aristocrat. Her olive skin and dark, wavy hair, which was no doubt proud to be of the same shade as her dazzling eyes were nothing in comparison to the charming smile she greeting him with. She wore a green dress of linen, which did not exactly meet the expectations of a noble, but which suited her nonetheless.  
        They spoke for a long while- hours, perhaps. Francis was not able to recall of what they spoke as soon as they had stopped. It was as if time had lapsed. It was as if she had hypnotized him. He then remembered his plan. Like the actor he learned to be as Governor, Francis shakily stood from his chair and groaned as he fully stood.  
"My dear Maribelle," he began in the light, airy voice that comes with age, "I'm afraid it's getting late, and my age no longer permits me to do these kinds of things; staying up, that is. Would you excuse me? My room is on the second floor and-"  
"It's quite alright," Maribelle interrupted, standing up alongside the man. "I'll help you up the stairs, if you wouldn't mind," she paused. "sir."  
"No, no, no need, Madame Volleh. All I must do is fetch a cane, and I'll be able on my own."  
" _Faccen e ories ellas vou derusch pur voulesch,_ no, Governor? It is my pleasure to help you."   
Francis gave in. He supposed his plans could wait until another day- some day when he would be truly alone.   
        Thus, Maribelle helped him clamber up the stairwell and to his room. She came down almost immediately, in a rush, a bit frazzled. None of the nurses or doctors noticed, and the woman slipped out the front door and disappeared into the cool Rousettean spring. Francis did not exit his room the rest of that day, nor did he come down the next day to join the rest of them in their morning rituals. So, finally, a young nurse went to his room to see what the matter was.   
        The window was broken; this was the first thing she noticed. How had someone broken it? This was the first thing she asked herself. There was nothing strong enough in this room to break a window so sturdy as this one. Then, she happened to look out of the window and onto the street below. The doctors were called immediately, but, when they pulled themselves from their patients and took him up off the pavement, the old man was dead. They ruled it as a suicide. None of them noticed the woman enter or leave.


	10. Messenger Bird

       The news that the former Governor of Fluie had passed away spread like a disease through the province, quickened by the maggot-ridden bodies lying in the streets; that is to say, the fact he had committed suicide. Some were relieved to have the burden of the man taken from off the shoulders of the province, some did not care, and others wondered still where his daughter, the current Governor, was. For Elliot Phorus had not been seen in the province for longer than the people were comfortable with or patient enough to put up with. Certainly, the history of her father followed Elliot, and her disappearance was the thing to remind the people of it. It was thus that the people began to doubt their governor and start to look to her substitute: a man by the name of Stephane Ludovich.  
        Stephane was not young, but with this came experience. Experience was not unfamiliar with both Elliot and Stephane, but his experience seemed to the people pronounced by his age. Stephane was retired and had previously been the late duke's and the duke's father's advisor. Before this, he had worked for Duchess Rousseau as a sort of upkeeper of the royal manor, tending to the rose bushes in the spring, then to the animals in the winter. He lowered and stowed away the Rousettean flag at night or in particularly bad weather with such care that one would guess he was holding a baby, and he raised the flag in the morning with such pride that one would guess he was watching his own child grow older.  
        Stephane Ludovich did not wish to replace Elliot, and, in fact, waited for her arrival patiently so he could resume his domestic duties to the Duchess. He did not know exactly of what had taken place in the Fluiean forest, but he did know the severity in which the Governor was injured and loyally kept his silence. Stephane also knew that their carriage had crashed and that the Chlealivian noble, Abraham Volleh, had gone missing. Abraham was suspected to be injured, but the last anyone had seen of him was right before the carriage had crashed. Maribelle had been with Elliot since they managed to get back from the crash site. Ruth and her mother, Jeanne, had gone to visit her father. Thus we are left with the news of Francis' death.  
        The asylum staff sent for his family with their messenger bird, painted an old, rusty navy blue and donning a faded cloth wrapped around both of its wings, stitched with the emblem of the asylum on the front and a red cross on the back. When the bird delivered its message, Ruth and Jeanne departed immediately, and the messenger bird accompanied them on their trip. Elliot was forced to stay behind and recover. Maribelle watched over the children with a mournful, tired air as Merlin aided a nurse in taking care of Elliot. Lydia entered Elliot's room. Lydia did not speak for a few moments, and she contemplated what to say first.  
"I'm sorry, Governor," she quietly said. Her voice was humble.  
"For what?" Elliot did not look at her.  
"For not being able to protect you, Governor."  
The Governor was reminded that, indeed, Lydia was not there after the crash. She spoke, "Where were you?"  
She seemed to think about her response. "I was chasing away the _tele,_ Governor. I did not realize you were so grievously injured."  
Elliot finally raised her head. "I see you weren't hurt."  
Lydia looked away. "No, Governor, I am alright."  
"Do you have any idea where Abraham is? When did you see him last?" Elliot refrained from asking the question she knew she should.  
"If I did know, I would tell you. I'm afraid I saw him last at, well, the carriage, of course."  
        The Governor did not speak again, nor did Lydia. She was still trying to remember what exactly happened in the forest, but all was still a whirlwind of noise and rain and blood. She remembered Maribelle carrying her away after chasing some creature off, but did not remember Lydia or Abraham there. Merlin must have gotten away and joined Maribelle after she had retrieved the Governor. She did not want to believe that Lydia's intentions were ill, but her convenient absences worried Elliot.  
"Blackwater," the Governor called.  
"Yes, Governor?"  
"What was your life like before you met my father?"  
Lydia seemed put off by the question, but she sat next to the Governor's bed nevertheless. "You know what I am, no?"  
"I do."  
"I lived a very long time ago, Governor, when the early dukes were ruling. I lived in the time of Duke Filippov DeWolffe; he was born in Russia, if I remember correctly. My family was relatively well-off, and I was studying literature, so that one day I might become a writer. I had two older sisters, Evelyn and Dominique. Dominique was a nurse, and Evelyn was the head of an orphanage. Both were married; I was not, and I did not want to be. I did not want to waste my life in the service of another, so I abstained from marriage as long as my father was willing to put up with. But I did fall in love, eventually." She stopped.  
"That doesn't explain how you became what you are," Elliot noted.  
Lydia seemed sorrowful; she seemed hypnotized, as if the words she spoke were automatic. "He loved me, too, but his older brother would not allow us to be together; he was a doctor. He called me a poor wench and said that his brother could _\- would_ marry according to their family. So, we sought a solution. It was a bad one, and I regret it terribly."  
Elliot was astonished; the emotions that Lydia displayed in these few minutes was more than she had in the years before.  
"It was a ritual; a terrible one. There was a sorcerer- that was what he called himself- that lived alone in a shack in the Chalinian forest. We found him, and he promised to make the problem of his brother go away. He promised we would be able to love each other for-ever. The ritual required us to wait 'til the winter, when, he said himself, 'the time was right'. I can't remember much afterward, but it required us to-" She stopped, and a tear welled in the corner of her eye. "-to eat the flesh of the other. He did something with a powder, too, but I don't remember the details after that. We paid him and never saw him again. We remember feeling exactly the same, but, when centuries passed, we realized we were not."  
"And what happened to the man?"  
"He went insane, and I very nearly followed when I lost him."  
"Why was winter 'the right time'?"  
"He said something along the lines of winter being the time where everything dies, so it thus can be renewed in the spring."  
Elliot looked down. "You met my father, I suppose, after?"  
"I did, and that was when I truly became what I am now."  
"You really hated him, then, didn't you?"  
Lydia looked up at her master; her expression was stern. "He was a terrible man."  
"Will you tell me what he did?"  
"You do not know?"  
"I do not."  
Lydia did not speak for a long while. "Ask your mother. I do not believe that it is my part to tell you."  
        Then, Lydia got up from her chair and swiftly left the room. She watched her leave. Then, when the door shut, the Governor remembered something. Vincent. How did he say he had gotten into Chalin? A couple helped him in the forest, he said, when he was attacked by the same sort of creature which had attacked them. Where, exactly? In the forest of Jausie, in Chalin. They needed to find Vincent again, and they needed him to tell them just where he had seen the couple.  
        However, the nurse kept Elliot for a week before she deemed her sufficient for travel, but this was the only amount of time they were delayed; as soon as she gave the Governor freedom, they left immediately. They decided to stall their trip to Fortêu and put finding Abraham as their top priority. Maribelle and Merlin both came with them, whereas Ruth and Jeanne stayed at the Volleh manor. Maribelle and the butler received no explanation beforehand, except when they entered Chalin and arrived at the hotel.  
        The door was unlocked, and, when they entered, the building was empty. Vincent was missing from his station, and no sound came from the levels above. Everything was just as the Governor remembered it. The window was shattered, the chairs and tables were in disarray, and there were scratch marks on the wooden floor where Doli and the creature clashed. The corpse of the animal was sprawled out by Vincent's desk, and the splatter of blood and brain that was ejected from its skull when Lydia shot it was now dry and rotting on the floor. Lydia scrutinized the body with a mien of disgust.  
"What are we doing here?" Maribelle seemed put off by the wolf-like body. "What happened?"  
"A man by the name of Vincent Faust works here," Lydia answered, "and I assume you already know who that is, correct, Madame Volleh?"  
Elliot turned to look at Maribelle.  
She seemed surprised and spoke, "Yes, I do. How do you know him? And what happened here?" She repeated.  
        Lydia explained to Maribelle that, when they had first entered Chalin early into the case, they stayed at the hotel, where they met Vincent and a young girl named Loretta. Then, during then night, the creature broke in, and Lydia shot it after retrieving a weapon. This was all she knew, but, after a moment of silence, Elliot added more to the story. After the _tele_ smashed the window and entered, it targeted solely Vincent, who started spewing something about a stolen object- which Elliot believed he actually had with him at the time, for he looked to be holding something-, but Lydia shot the creature before it had the chance to respond to him. Maribelle said nothing more.  
"But I think we should know something, Madame Volleh," Lydia started, "How do _you_ know Vincent?"  
"Oh, well," Maribelle began, smoothing out her gloves and straightening the rifle she brought with her, which was strung across her back, "He's a hunter like we are, you know, the Volleh family, and I've seen him now and again."  
        Lydia knew this was a lie- although, _how_ she knew one could only guess-, but Elliot did not; and so they continued. After a quick sweep of the hotel executed by Lydia and Merlin, nothing was found, and the hotel was quite literally empty. Elliot turned to ask if Maribelle knew of any place where Vincent could have gone, if he was still safe, that is, or where he could have been taken, if he had been taken.  
The noblewoman thought and answered, "He was sent here from France, just before the war, that I know. Perhaps he went back when he realized how dangerous it was for him here? He didn't seem like the _real_ hunter-type to me, didn't seem like he would stick." Her face was flushed in agitation.  
"France? Really?" Lydia drawled. "Is there anywhere else, by chance?"  
"He had stolen something from them; I don't know what it was, but it caused a flurry of trouble for the rest of us. We haven't been able to contact him much since then. But we're looking for him, too. Some of us."  
"I suppose by 'we,' you mean other hunters," Elliot stated.  
"I do," Maribelle answered.  
"Do you know any others?"  
"A few. My husband, Abraham, of course." She stopped and cleared her throat. "And another woman, by the name of Valerie, Valerie Perrault."  
The Governor gave a start. "Did you say Valerie?"  
"Yes, Valerie; she lives here, in Chalin, last time I heard of her. She was born into a family of hunters, like us, not like Vincent, and her husband was recently killed; you know, by the sudden violence of the wretches when Vincent stole from them."  
"Do you always refer to them with such vile words?" Lydia demanded of the noble.  
However, Elliot intervened, "Do you have any idea of where Valerie is now? You see, we've spoken to her before, after the attack here, at the hotel." She then relayed to Maribelle the information that Valerie told them of the murder of Delilah Krau, but did not elaborate on how Delilah had anything to do with the murder in Abraham's silver mine.  
"How on earth would she know so much about that? She's young; I hardly believe she was even a baby when it happened."  
"Maribelle, why would a hunter have any reason to delve into such a case?"  
"I don't have any idea, Governor. The entire thing was started and ended by humans."  
Lydia had erected a chair and was now sitting, looking thoroughly disinterested.  
"What thing, Maribelle?"  
"The murder, of course. Christ, Elliot, you're interrogating me as if I had killed the woman."  
"I'm just making sure of everything, Madame Volleh."  
"If it bring us closer to finding Abraham or sorting this thing out, do what you must."  
        Thus, they left the hotel, albeit with unnecessary hostilities rising between one another. Maribelle informed them that, if the Governor wished and found it helpful to the case, she would be able to take them to Valerie. Elliot thanked her, and they set off to Perrault. On the way, Maribelle informed them that Valerie owned a tea shop, which is where she would most likely be, and that she had taken up the job herself after her husband passed and her child came. Valerie had currently stopped "hunting"- this was how Maribelle said it-, and she offhandedly muttered how unwelcome they would be, "just barging in like that" and "bothering her with this wolf nonsense". Elliot found those words to be unconcerned about the situation, considering that it was her occupation. However, the Governor reminded herself that Maribelle has to, after all, shoulder her husband's disappearance but could not help but think her the worse for it, if subconsciously.  
        The tea shop which Valerie kept in order was near the capital of the country, Piéjmen, which was rooted in the province of Bluén. No doubt, for all of them, visiting the capital of the country they were supposed to be opposing was a sort of surreal sensation. They were visiting it with a sense of indifference; they were being casual with the enemy, like making small talk with a murderer. Their problem was not with the country itself like it should have been during war, but rather with something completely irrelevant to what was going on with the rest of the world, with something only a select few people knew was even happening. The Governor found it to be rather isolating.  
        Valerie's tea shop was a small place on the outskirts of the capital, where the city began to fizzle into a smaller town, not quite the capital itself, but not quite independent. This area was, for lack of official word, the between state of a countryside village and the dilapidated parts of an old city. After one reached the extent of this area, all that was left were fields and roads that led to other towns within the relatively poor province.  
        Despite the run-down façade of the area, Valerie's tea shop was scrupulously well kept, both outside and, as they saw when they left their hurriedly repaired carriage, in. A strong floral smell was the first that hit them, which Lydia reacted to by snorting and wrinkling her nose irascibly. Valerie was in the kitchen rolling some sort of dough, and a young girl wearing an oversized, dirty apron was wiping down a table. The door made a soft clunk when it shut. The girl looked up and stopped her chore. The Governor made eye contact with her.  
"Loretta?"  
Her mouth cracked into a wide grin. "Elliot!"  
        Valerie noticed the commotion and turned her head to look at the visitors. She, however, was not so delighted at the sight of them, particularly, of course, Maribelle. She pretended not to see them and started forming a shape with the dough. Loretta shoved her cloth into the breast-pocket of the apron and strode towards them. The girl made to hug the Governor, but she seemed to change her mind, for whatever reason, and stayed put.  
"I never expected a governor to come here; you know, a small place in Chalin like this!"  
A customer peeked over their booth at the word "governor".  
Lydia gave her a strained, wry smile, most likely intended as a warning.  
Loretta noticed this and nervously started, "So, um, Elliot-"  
"I've actually come to see Valerie, Loretta," the Governor started. "And I suppose that's her?" She gestured toward the kitchen.  
Just then, Valerie came from the kitchen and more or less glared at the company. She tapped the counter and beckoned them over. "You're here for Vincent, are you?" The frail woman snapped, more to Maribelle than to the Governor. She continued before they could correct her, "Well, it's not me you should be speaking to; it's that girl. She was there when it happened; we found her and that dog at his hotel, hiding, scared out of her wits."  
"Loretta," Elliot said.  
"Yes, Elliot?" Loretta chirped.  
"Is that true? Were you with Vincent when he was- when he went missing?" The Governor corrected herself.  
"Yeah," she answered in a low voice. "But I can't really tell you much."  
"We're not here for-" Maribelle started. She stopped when she saw Elliot crouching down by Loretta.  
"What happened?" The Governor asked the girl in such a tone of earnestness that even Loretta was sobered by it.  
Loretta sat on a stool, and Elliot stood.  
"It didn't happen right after you left; in fact, we had a few weeks together," her light, childish voice was estranged by the dark notes. "I lived with him for a while, and I mostly either fixed up Doli or cleaned the hotel rooms. No one really came, by the way. It was kind of a waste, and it was Vincent's job to do it, but he made me do it, anyway. We stayed out of the room with the body because it was starting to smell bad, and it was way to heavy for either of us to lift it, even together!  
        When they came, I didn't realize that they came, if that makes sense. He just told me to hide and not to come out unless he told me to, but he didn't tell me why I was supposed to hide. Doli stayed out with him."  
She looked around the shop and lowered her voice even more, despite the customers not making a single hint that they heard any of the story. Valerie watched her tell the story with a stern look and an impatient air.  
"I came out when I knew for sure he wasn't there any more. Poor Doli could barely stand, and her heart was beating so slowly," her voice strained as she said that. "Then Valerie and some other people came, and Valerie took me with her. She helped me fix Doli a little, but she still isn't completely the same." Loretta stopped.  
"That's it?" Elliot whispered. "You didn't hear anything?"  
Loretta shook her head, and Lydia gave her a thinking, calculating gaze.  
"Did you see anything when you came down? Did Vincent give you anything? Did he say anything about an object?" Elliot tried again.  
Maribelle and Valerie were having a whispered argument.  
"No," Loretta said; her voice was wavering with determination. "No, he didn't."  
"Did you notice anything different about the room? Just a feeling, even?" Elliot repeated with ardor.  
"No, Elliot," the girl repeated. "All I noticed that was different was Doli."  
The Governor straightened her back. "I see."  
"I'm sorry," Loretta needlessly apologized.  
"No, Loretta, it's not your fault." She turned. "But where is Doli?"  
The girl slowly got up from the stool. "She's in the backyard." And without another word and feeling a little ashamed in herself, Loretta began aimlessly wiping down a table.  
        When Elliot turned to look at the two hunters, Maribelle and Valerie both looked very heated. Lydia had eaten her way through at least half of the mints in a bowl on the counter, which Valerie whisked away from her before she could take any more. Lydia simply diverted her attention to the Governor as fluidly as if there had been no mints in the first place. "Anything?" She asked.  
"Weren't you listening? I thought you rather enjoyed prying in on conversations."  
"Not this time, I'm afraid, Governor."  
"Well, Loretta did not see or hear anything. The only thing she found different was Doli, but, of course, that's to be expected. God knows what those creatures did to it."  
"Are you sure, Governor?"  
"Sure of what?"  
"That we shouldn't take a look at the dog?"  
Elliot squinted down at the woman. "Is it worthwhile?" She tried to sound like she wasn't asking her advice.  
"It very well might be, Governor."  
        Elliot took Lydia's advice and, with Loretta, Lydia, and Maribelle, stepped out through the back door of the shop, where the dog sat on the paved porch, staring up at them with its lightbulb eyes, which Loretta had switched out for brighter, bigger ones. Doli's heart contracted weakly with a nauseating squeaking noise, as if it were broken and the pieces were rubbing against one another. But when she knelt by the dog and peered in between the rusty gears, she saw something out of place. She saw a clear bottle.


	11. The Events of The Nineteenth of March

        The events of the nineteenth of March were certainly peculiar ones, for, exactly three weeks after the Chlealivian noble Abraham Volleh went missing and one week after the Governor of Fluie entered Chalin in order to find the whereabouts of the nobleman, the capital of Rousette, Demiue, was raided by a group of rebels from Chalin. An estimated one-hundred and twenty people were injured, but, of that number, only four were sufficiently hurt to die.  
        Of that one-hundred and twenty was Duchess Charlotte Rousseau herself. She was out amongst the people that day to reassure them that the relations between the two countries was radically improving with the help of the former Chalinian official, Jacques Hannes. He was the leader of Chalin before it became dominantly Rousettean-owned; after war was declared and every single Chalinian official was replaced with Rousettean ones, Jacques remained a pillar of hope for the people, a wall to protect them from invaders, their sword against the savage oppression of the majority. And he emphatically acted the part.  
        Jacques was there when the Duchess was injured. He was there when they brought her back to the manor, and he was there when she rasped to him that she wanted to set Chalin free, even after the attack. It fascinated him. Why, after what they did? Why, after, again, the people tried to murder yet another leader? Why would she want to set them free? She had complete control, but she did not want it, even faced with proof as to why she would need it. It was then that Jacques knew that she would be the best either of the two countries had. It was then he realized that she needed to live.  
        Up until this moment, only three that were involved in the attack had perished. Who was the fourth? It was Jacques. He, too, had been injured. He had been there when it happened, after all. However, nobody knew he was injured, for he had been injured internally, not externally. The doctors there had been too preoccupied with saving their own Duchess to bother with checking him, and he died an agonizing week later. He was back in Chalin by then. The people did not know why he had died. They did not know they themselves had killed their only real hope, and, thus, they blamed it on the thing that had caused all of their misery before. They blamed it on Rousette, and the ones who wanted the war to end the most kept it alive.  
        The predicament for the group of Rousetteans- that is, Maribelle, Elliot, Merlin, and Lydia- was that hostilities between the two nationalities- Chalinian people and Rousettean people- had increased dramatically. The fixture separating the two countries- too large to be a gate, but not quite a wall- was nearly always closed and only traders or merchants were allowed through after a thorough, invading search. Communications between the two countries had stopped long ago. But as the Governor looked down at the bottle in her hand, she knew none of what was happening. She did not know that leaving Chalin would be near equivalent of escaping prison, both in difficulty and in significance.  
        Loretta gawked at the bottle, which was half-full of a thin, grainy, greyish substance one could almost mistake for gunpowder. Elliot brought the bottle closer to her face but was suddenly stopped when Maribelle cried out, " _Elliot!_ Don't bring that any closer!" She then snatched the bottle away from her, grabbed the cloth which Loretta had used to wipe down tables, and wrapped the bottle tightly in it.  
"What's the matter? What is it?" The Governor stood.  
"It's a substance called _lourierre."  
"_Why, that means-" Elliot started.  
"Corpse powder," Lydia finished, looking proud of herself. "This same substance can also be a liquid. I like to call it 'Dead Man's Wine'. Has a ring to it, don't you think, Governor?"  
"How did you know that?" Maribelle immediately grew offensive.  
"Yes, Blackwater," Elliot took the noblewoman's side. "How?"  
"You do know, Governor, don't be foolish. As for you, Madame Volleh, it is a _long_ and complicated story." Lydia theatrically feigned swooning as she crooned the last phrase, almost mocking her. She then smiled degradingly down at Maribelle.  
Valerie took Loretta behind the shop into the kitchen but emerged without the girl a moment later.  
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you three ladies to leave, now," Valerie smiled dryly at them. "You've caused enough trouble by merely walking in."  
Colour rose to Maribelle's face.  
Valerie leaned in closely to the women, and Maribelle leaned even closer into her; their faces were pencil-length from touching. "After all, you wouldn't want the local soldiers to hear that there're a couple of _Rousettean krelaud_ in town, would you?"  
"Are you threatening us, Valerie?" Maribelle seethed.  
"If it looks and sounds like a duck, it's a duck," the shop owner responded. "Get out."  
        Maribelle was the first to get to the door but the last to leave. She looked back at Valerie. Some of the more considerate customers were trying their hardest not to stare, but some of the more curious were fully engrossed. Maribelle's face did not soften into a more compassionate gaze but hardened into the sole characteristic of diamonds: stubbornness. "Don't come back. You're not welcome," was the last thing she would ever say to Valerie.  
        For now, they were safe amidst the Chalinian people. Most were not aware of who Rousettean officials were- much less what they looked like- and were especially ignorant of the minor ones, like governors. However, suspected of being a Rousettean wasn't their greatest concern. What was important was finding Abraham as soon as possible. Then the governor remembered something. Louis, she thought. It was a fleeting memory, an unnecessary one, simply brought about by the fact that she had been thinking of Abraham. Abraham had given his coat to Louis, and Lydia had given her coat to Abraham. He forgot to return it.  
        And then the memory faded away as quickly as it had appeared. The Governor looked up to find that Lydia had been sleeping. Merlin was hardly keeping consciousness beside her. Her eyes were closed, and she was leaning against the side of the carriage door. "Blackwater?"  
Slowly, she opened one of her eyes. "Governor?"  
"Did Abraham ever return your coat?"  
Lydia smiled. "No, he didn't." She closed her eyes again. "But it's not as if I need it, Governor, if that's what you're worrying yourself over. I just wear one to 'blend in,' that is to say, 'look normal'." Lydia fell silent.  
"No, that's not it," Elliot whispered to herself. "Where exactly did you direct this carriage?"  
"Lydia and I have been looking through the two books that you both found in the theatre," Merlin interjected. "We've found another note, which wasn't separate, but, rather, had been drawn on one of the pages in 'The Basics of Sewing'." Merlin held up the respective book. "When I say 'note' it isn't necessarily to someone else. It's a reminder that Victor wrote for himself."  
"And what does it say?"  
"'Meeting brother at the bar next to work at nine. Says he wants to talk about Del'," Lydia recites.  
"He has a brother?"  
"Apparently so," Merlin confirmed.  
"I suppose what you meant to tell me is that we're going to the specified bar?"  
"We are. That is, we're going back to the area where we found the theatre to look for the bar." Merlin put the book in an old, leather satchel which exterior was starting to flake. Strapped to it was also an umbrella, which Merlin justified bringing along with the excuse of, "You can never be too prepared for rain, especially in the spring." Even so, the umbrella was far too small for all of them, and Elliot silently confirmed to herself that he only brought it for himself, should the need actually arise.  
"I see. But, Blackwater?"  
"Yes, Governor?"  
"That powder-" Elliot pointed to the bottle, which Maribelle had wrapped in Loretta's dirty cloth. Maribelle was sleeping. "-if it is the same as what you used- what would _they_  want with it?"  
"Am I to assume that by 'they' you mean 'the _tuele'_?"  
"Yes."  
Lydia sat in her seat properly and folded her legs.  
"What do you know about this, Blackwater?"  
"I know that they're aggressive and bloodthirsty monsters."  
"Everyone does. You know that's not what I meant, Blackwater."  
"I know that they'd do anything to make themselves stronger."  
"You're stalling."  
"I'm not. If there's anyone you should ask, it's Maribelle. She knows these creatures. I'm sure she'll tell you, albeit with-" Lydia looked scornfully down at the noblewoman. "-a _terribly_ biased view."  
"You're telling me you know nothing of them?"  
"I know what they are. That's all."  
"And what are they, exactly?"  
"They're something else."  
"Blackwater, please," Elliot said in a more demanding tone.  
"Well, it's a bit hard to explain, which is why I referred you to Maribelle, but, I guess, just because she kills them doesn't mean she understands them." Then, Lydia added offhandedly, "There've been plenty examples of that in human history."  
"Go on."  
"We've a sort of rivalry, I've come to learn in all my years; them and those like me. I haven't exactly learned why yet, which says something, considering how old I am. I do know, however, that they are-" Her lips curled up in a gleeful smile. "-a _wonderful_ enemy to have."  
        Maribelle awoke suddenly, which caused the cloth-wrapped bottle to roll off of the cushion and fall onto the floor. She leaned forward and snatched it away from Lydia, who had gone to pick it up like her. Lydia sneered and leaned back in the seat. "What are you going to do with it?"  
"With what?" She put the bottle in the pocket of her coat, which she still wore, although it was not cold.  
"The powder, clearly."  
"That's not really any of your business, now, is it?"  
"As part of this posse or whatever-"  
"She's right, Blackwater," Elliot interrupted. "This is their business, not ours."  
"But weren't you just saying that you-"  
"No, Blackwater. I wasn't." The Governor gave her a perplexing stare, but Lydia nevertheless resigned. Merlin had stayed silent and stoic throughout the conversation, listening attentively.  
Maribelle tucked her hair behind her ears and reluctantly said, "Thank you, Elliot."  
"Should I-?" Merlin began to wonder aloud.  
"No," Lydia rejoined, eyeing him maliciously. "don't."  
"Don't do what?" Maribelle asked Elliot, although she was matching scowls with Lydia.  
The Governor exhaled deeply and fidgeted with the rim of her hat. Merlin looked at her with a concerned expression, Lydia with an impatient one. Elliot thought for a moment.  
Maribelle took offense to her hesitation. "I'm his wife, Elliot." She said The Governor's name with a trace of contempt. "If it has anything to do with the mine, tell me. I have the right to know, don't I?"  
Lydia snorted. "And she has the right to tell you _nothing_!"  
"Blackwater, please! Would you-!"  
        The carriage gave a strong jolt as it stopped asudden. Lydia pulled back in time to narrowly avoid knocking her head against The Governor's. A muffled yell came from beyond the walls of the carriage. Lydia pulled back the curtain and looked through the window. She smiled. "Oh, look. We're back. Lovely as ever." Merlin, who was looking through the other window, muttered something to himself about how the place could be so filthy. Lydia opened the door and stepped out; then, Elliot, Maribelle, and Merlin all followed respectively.  
        Judging by how Elliot recognized almost none of their surroundings, they were either not where they were supposed to be or were just a ways from the hotel and theatre. The Governor trusted Lydia to a certain degree, however, and, since Lydia was the one to have told the carriage where to go, she trusted that they were in the right place. Maribelle looked about the place with scrutiny, possibly conflicted about her feelings about the country as a whole and the fact that her husband was from here. On the other hand, Merlin was eyeing the area curiously, for he had never been to Chalin until now. "Well?" Elliot looked toward Lydia.  
"Well? You're the 'detective', no? Wasn't it you who Abraham chose for this case?" Lydia smiled, as if contemplating her own self-worth in the situation. "However," she started again before Maribelle could order her around as if she were the one in charge, "I would be partial to taking a stroll- let's say-" She thought for a moment. "to the left and seeing what we can see."  
 "Hm?" Maribelle started, thankfully taking away the need for Elliot to say anything. "What are we waiting for, then, fools? Let's get going!" And Maribelle was the one to lead the way.   
        Lydia kept an odd closeness to her as they walked, which made Elliot wonder. Lydia hadn't said to be careful, nor did she say that she felt anything. This began to make Elliot paranoid. Perhaps this was her way of saying that it was too dangerous to say anything about it for fear of whatever it was becoming aware that they were aware. The Governor looked up at her. Lydia was staring forward with a stiff expression, almost as if she were trying to focus on something that wasn't there. She didn't notice that Elliot was gazing up at her. Or, maybe, The Governor thought, she did, but, for some reason or another, did not want to show it.  
        Or, maybe, Elliot was over-thinking it.  
        Even so, the look on Lydia's face unnerved her. She had never seen her quite so serious, quite so engrossed by something she may or may not have even been able to see. Maribelle angrily raised her voice as she expressed her frustration for how far this bar was. This forced Elliot's eyes to finally see the rifle which was slung across her back when she turned her view to the noblewoman. She suddenly remembered how Maribelle rescued her in the forest. She remembered what Maribelle had shot at. "Honestly, where are we even going?" Maribelle ranted. "Walking." She scoffed. "What an excellent strategy to solve a god-damned murder case!"  
Lydia strained a smile, but it was a terribly sardonic one. "If you have a better suggestion, _dear_ , feel free to speak up."  
"We could at least wait until we have enough reason to go out."  
"We know that Victor used to live close to the 'Grey Owl Theatre'- in fact, he _worked_ there- and even specified in the note was that the bar was nearby. And we even now know that he has a brother; however, so far, his brother has nothing to do with it. So, yes, Madame Volleh, we do have enough reason to go out."  
        But it wasn't for another few minutes of walking that they finally got sight of the only bar there since they began their expedition. A moth-eaten and rain-soiled post stuck out just above the door, and a sign suspended by two rusty chains remained still in the air. The sign, which bore the bar's name, read: "L'arbre Vivant".  
        Beside the door was a large stretch of glass, which showcased a portion of the bar, the barstools prettily lined up, and a row of booths to the right. The place was mostly empty, except for a young, thin girl in her late teens and an even younger boy, who couldn't have been much older than five. The girl was sitting quietly, looking forlornly down at the polished wood table; her face was dirtied with what seemed to be soot. The boy was sitting across from her, drinking water from a small, plastic cup. Lydia stared invasively at them.  
        Lydia kindly opened the door for them, and a small bell rung above them. The girl and the bartender both looked up, which suddenly made Elliot aware of how out-of-place all of them must have looked, especially both her and Maribelle. The bartender was relatively old; he seemed to be in his late fifties or early sixties. The man eyed the group suspiciously. He glanced at the girl, the boy, and back at them. "Don't really get many new faces nowadays," his gravelly voice echoed. He was American. "Never seen you before."  
"Well," Elliot said, "now you have."  
"Hm." He didn't seem very enthusiastic about their "new faces". "What'a you need?"  
"A word."  
"A word? 'Fraid I don't sell that."  
Maribelle quietly huffed. Lydia and Merlin both had faith in their Governor and had contently resigned.  
"I'm sure we can negotiate a price, don't you think?"  
"I'm sure we can."  
        The man lead Elliot- and only Elliot- to the kitchen behind the bar. A young but scarred man, who was wearing a stained apron, seemed to be the only other staff member in sight. He spoke in a hushed voice, and Elliot knew that she should, too. "What the hell do you know?" He whispered hoarsely.  
"I don't know a thing about this place; that's precisely why I'm here. I would like you to tell me of a man by the name of Victor Woodry. Do you know him?"  
"Woodry?" His eyes drifted to the left as he thought. "Weren't there two of 'em?"  
"Yes, there were. He had a brother, we believe. Have you ever seen the brother? Do you know his name?"  
"Now, hold on a sec', lady. Why're you so int'rested?"  
The Governor quickly fished for an excuse. "He's a relative, sir. He's gone missing. I just want to find him." She tried to make her act believable, but, judging by the ever-increasing suspicious expression, he wasn't buying it.  
"You sure 'bout that?" His face dropped, and he grew gravely serious. "Do you know who he is?"  
"I do."  
"Who are you to him?" He was now so close to Elliot that she was almost fully pressed against the grimy kitchen wall.  
"His cousin, sir."  
He hummed and backed away, if only an inch. "He ain't got no relatives 'cept his brother, lady."  
"Even so, I'm still close to them." Her lies were becoming more precarious.  
"Really?"  
"Yes, sir."  
"What's his brother's name, then, lady?" He sneered.  
Her mind raced, and she blurted out the first name she could think of before she could stop herself, "Oliver."  
The bartender put space between them. "Right."  
It began to grow clear to Elliot what exactly this meant, but, then, before she could express any kind of shock, Maribelle's voice rang out, " _Elliot!"_  
        The bartender grabbed Elliot by the collar of her cravat, pulled a butcher's knife from a piece of meat which the muscular man had been butchering, and shoved The Governor out of the kitchen. He pulled her up in front of them. Before the bartender forced her head backward and held the butcher's knife against her throat, she caught a short glimpse of the scene. There was that same creature, that _telé_ ; no doubt the young man which she had seen in the kitchen. Maribelle was holding her rifle toward the creature; Merlin held up the same pistol which had been used on the one who attacked Vincent. Lydia was livid.  
        Everything seemed to happen all at once. There were two gunshots, once for the telé and once for the man holding the knife to her throat. He fell back, she moved to the left, and the knife cut her right shoulder. There was a scream; the telé had lunged forward to attack. There was an ear-splitting screech, and something terrible happened. Elliot made the mistake of looking up.  
        Maribelle was on the floor, lying in a pool of her own blood. Merlin was in a better state, holding Maribelle's rifle, and sported a small cut on his cheek. Lydia was something human but so dissimilar to one that comparing the race to it would have been a grave disgrace. Her- its- small eyes were sunken into its skull; it was so thin that its bones seemed to be sharper than the claws on the end of its knobby fingers. Its lips were almost nonexistent, and, instead, were replaced with bloody strips of flesh which exposed its dry gums and small, razor-like teeth. Its skin was as pale and as white as the shell of an egg and as scarred and as leathery as the hide of a bull.  
        Maribelle stared up in shock at it. It locked eyes with Elliot, who gave it a terrified gape. It snapped its head toward the telé, hunched over, and lunged. By the way it ferociously attacked and wildly clawed and screeched and tore and bit and gouged, to her, to all of them, it was the embodiment of rage. This was not Lydia, not anymore.


	12. Someone's Let The Dogs Loose

     

  It took Elliot a few moments to realize that she was awake, and, then, even longer to realize that she had fainted. Lydia was looming over her; her face was contorted with emotion, and her hair was riotously disheveled. She was breathing heavily and bleeding in several places. "Merlin!" Elliot called out. She sat up on her elbow, pushing Lydia away from her.  
"Governor?" His voice was frayed with anxiety. He was bent over Maribelle, who laid motionless on the floor.  
"Save him!" She ordered, pointing toward the bartender which Merlin himself had shot.  
Merlin looked at him from behind his shoulder. "But M-Maribelle?" He stopped, hesitating terribly.  
"Blackwater, take care of Maribelle," The Governor barked, roughly shoving her away. She tremulously got to her feet like a newborn calf learning how to walk.  
"Uh-uh," came a quiet, timid, stuttering noise from behind them.  
        The girl was clutching the little boy in her muscular arms and was harshly pressed up against the wall, as if doing so would protect them. She looked petrified, and the boy was in her lap, clinging onto her shoulders and burying his face in her chest. Elliot stared at them and had no clue as to what to say. The girl, too, seemed unable to speak. Lydia and Merlin were both preoccupied with caring for Maribelle and the bartender respectively. The _telé_ was mostly motionless, except for the occasional moan or twitch. "Do you know these people?" was the first thing Elliot thought to ask.  
"N-no, I-I- only the bartender, but barely," the girl managed. "His name is- is- Isaac Koppel. But- I- you- how did he-why?" She stumbled over her words.  
"It's- Well, it's private official business. You would be well to leave."  
        She nodded swiftly, and she left hurriedly. Elliot watched them go; Lydia looked disapproving. She looked down at her shoulder, which had been bound, theoretically, by Lydia. The man was darkly muttering something to Merlin, who, in turn, was completely ignoring him and rather begrudgingly tending to his wound with the limited supplies he had brought in his umbrella-bag. Lydia looked helpless over Maribelle, and it would not have been far-fetched to suppose that she was purposefully doing as little as she could.  
"Governor, I believe that we should search for help soon," Lydia advised. "Maribelle is in a most unfortunate state."  
"And tell them what? She was attacked by a _telé_ when we were interrogating a bartender for the whereabouts of a dead man who may or may not have murdered his lover?" Elliot growled, agitated more by her pain than the situation.  
Lydia smiled warmly. "I see, Governor. But what about Mr. Volleh?"  
The Governor knew Lydia would say something along those lines, but she wasn't sure how to address it. "Alright," she began slowly, thinking. "I'm trusting you, Blackwater." Elliot gave her a severe look. "Take her and find someone who's willing to help, but _do_ _not_ tell them where we are from or what we are doing here. Understand?"  
Lydia stood and nodded. "Completely."  
        She then hoisted Maribelle onto her shoulders with difficulty, although Elliot knew she might have been faking it to fit in an out-of-place satirical performance. Maribelle, was, after all, quite a bit heavier than Lydia, but Lydia had more than enough strength to carry two men. The noblewoman's blood coated the skin on her face and the back of her neck and caked her hair together like water, but she did not seem to mind; in fact, she seemed as cheery as ever, and, as she stuck her hand out toward the door to make way, she turned to Elliot with a broad smile plastered on her blood-soused face and called out with a giddy laugh, " _Aur vwéna, nitt liere!"_  
        And they both disappeared.  
        Elliot moved over toward the _telé._ It huffed and growled at the sight of her. She looked at the creature's body and observed the cuts and bites that Lydia had inflicted upon the monster. She looked to the right and saw that Lydia had left Maribelle's rifle behind. She hobbled over to it and picked up the long, wooden object. Elliot found it to be surprisingly light. There was a moan and a scuttling noise from behind her, and, when she turned, the beast launched itself toward her with all of the strength it had left, baring its yellow teeth and its chipped claws.  
        The Governor stumbled backwards and pulled the trigger. The animal crumpled to the ground, and it glared at her with all the hatred of hell as its blood poured from the bullet hole and tousled the creature's coarse, choppy fur. This one was stronger than the one which had attacked Vincent, much stronger. She looked down at it, at that eerily human but animalistic face which was glowering at her with such hatred.  
        Its shoulders began to shake, and its chest shuddered. It began to wheeze and gasp. Its mouth split open from ear to ear, its tongue lolled out, and it uttered a joyous caterwaul. The thing was laughing. It was laughing with the kind of inexpressible joy that only those which are madly in love or madly insane feel. Then it convulsed into a fetal position on the bloodied ground and began to twitch. Its laughter mingled with painful whimpers and growling, but, still, it laughed. It simmered in its mirth until all that was left was the muscular young man Elliot had seen in the kitchen. He retained his injuries, but he was alive. He seethed, "Voul pechnen voul voer respin luim?"  
"Respin luim?" The Governor repeated. "Douvé ques?"  
His shoulders shook with silent snickering. "Douvé la lië."  
Elliot grew excited. "La lië? Faulie?" Her mind immediately went to one woman: "Delilah?"  
The young man fell silent.  
        The man which Merlin was caring for began to stir. He appeared to be feeling for his knife, but Merlin had stowed it in his bag. Merlin looked down at him like a scornful father would look down at his mischievous son. He stood and declared that that was all he could do for Isaac. Isaac painfully pulled himself up to a half-sitting, half-laying position and quietly rasped, "What did you do to him?" He cast them a wild look. "Adrien! What did you do to him?"  
"He's fine," Merlin half-heartedly assured the older man.  
        Isaac tried to pitifully drag himself toward Adrien, but Merlin cruelly crushed one of Isaac's hands under his boot. Elliot tried not to flinch when she heard the cracking and crunching of his bones. Isaac cried out in pain and cursed at Merlin. The young man laid still in a pool of his blood, but his chest was still rising and falling. The Governor did not yet know if she could say the same for Maribelle. She looked around at what they had done.  
        As she had already noted, the young man was lying motionless on the ground in front of her. Isaac was only a few feet away; his shabby, grey vest was stained reddish-brown with blood, and his torso had been wrapped with the bandages Merlin had at his dispense. Elliot noticed that he had clipped around his wrist a watch; the glass encasing the needles had been shattered.  
        The room in which they stood was dimly lit, which gave the blood that rolled across the floor the appearance of being black, but blacker still were the shadows that the candles cast out and shunned to the walls like an exile from a country. The room was quiet and cold, colder than her trembling hands. The loudest thing in the room was Isaac's pained breaths. The rest of the place was untouched, and everything was still as it was before they came.  
"What now?" croaked Isaac, giving her a disgusted glance.

Isaac sneered and spat at her boots.

She ignored him and continued, "About Oliver- Oliver is Victor's brother, you said, correct?"

Isaac kept his silence, but Elliot pushed on anyway, "Did you hear their conversations when they came to this bar?"

"They've come to this bar more times than I can count," Isaac hissed.

"Alright, let me elaborate: after the death of a woman named Delilah Krau. You've heard of her, correct?"

Isaac said nothing.

"Of course you have, and I know that they came to this bar to speak of her in particular. Did you happen to hear their conversation, Mr. Koppel?"

He, again, was silent.

"I see. Isaac, how did you first come to find that Oliver was Victor's brother?"

"First time they came. It wasn't a secret. They looked similar enough."

"And what did they look like, exactly?"

Isaac grimaced at her in a way that could have been described as a wolf baring its teeth. "I'm not telling you shit, lady."

"I have another question, Mr. Koppel. Why exactly did you come here from America? A country, in a state of war? Compared to your perfect country, where freedom is for all?"

"America ain't perfect."              

"It's better than this place, is it not? And, adding to the question of why you came to this irrelevant island at all, why Chalin? Chalin has the short end of the stick in the current affairs of the war, I have to admit. Why this country in particular?"

Isaac looked softly at Adrien, and Elliot looked down at the American. "For him," said he.

"It is because of the hunters, yes?" For the first time, the Governor began to think of just how big the community Maribelle and Abraham belonged to was.

"Yes," Isaac said, quieter.

"Is Adrien your son?" Elliot began to feel uneasy.                                                                  

"No, he is my nephew; my sister's son," Isaac rasped.

           Elliot whipped around and stared out of the large window. She felt as if she were being watched; this was a feeling not unlike the kind she frequently felt around Lydia, but somehow it was more intense, more penetrating. It was foreboding. Everything fell silent again, but the silence was tense this time around. "Governor?" Merlin's voice was quiet and urgent.

"Do you feel that, Merlin?"

"No, Governor, I don't." He took a hesitant step toward her. "Is- Is something the matter?"

"Blackwater is in danger," said Elliot automatically.

"Are you sure? How do you know?"

Elliot began to develop a headache that felt like someone was drilling a metal plate into her skull. Her hand reflexively gripped the side of her head, like a hand jolting away from a shock or a flame. She stumbled back a step and dropped Maribelle's rifle. Merlin came up from behind and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Governor, are-"

" _Charê nent toiagen!"_ cried an aggressive voice from behind the oaken door.

Elliot's eyes shot open with a start of panic.

"Look at what you did," Isaac growled from his incapacitated state on the floor. "Someone's let the dogs loose."

"Jou pa'van elsé!" came another voice, lighter and younger than the last.

A series of murmurs and hurried footsteps followed. Inside the bar, they were silent, frozen.

"Allen soire ellas'ja areaf'e vou soiren!" commanded the first man.

            Merlin looked toward the Governor for instruction; the butcher's knife was in his bag, the rifle on the floor. It must have been the girl to have alerted them. Merlin did not forfeit the knife; although he knew, should they come inside, his bag would be searched. The police officer demanded something inaudible to Elliot and the others; the footsteps came closer to the door.

"Galn sadn."                                                              

              The door opened.

             There stood three officers in the doorway; a young, naïve looking man, an older man, easily twice the age of the other, and a short, hard-looking, redheaded man whose facial hair was so think that it covered a portion of his lips. The man in the middle was the one who had been commanding the rest. The Governor could see through the door that there must have been at least ten other officers surrounding them, guns pointed. Elliot found their uniforms peculiar; that is, their lack of uniform was what puzzled her. They were all wearing a wide array of clothing, from grandiose robes on par with those of nobles, to the tunics of farmers, and to the tatters of the lowest class of society. Adrien was a _telé;_ perhaps the girl knew what they were. Perhaps these were hunters?

"Mapre'l?" The man in the middle ordered. His eyes fell upon poor Adrien, who still laid on the floor as if asleep.

"Mapre'l?" He barked.

Merlin took a nervous look at Elliot and blurted out, "Derek Maxime; that is my wife, Petra."

"And what of the other men?"

"The bartender-" Merlin pointed to Isaac. "-is Isaac Koppel."

           The officer strode forward; the others stayed in the doorway; they were both looking at Adrien. He stooped and picked up the rifle which had fallen at Elliot's feet. He examined it thoroughly. He stood. "A young woman told me of creatures which had attacked all of you." The officer pointed the rifle at Adrien. "Is that one?"

Isaac lowered at the man.

Elliot remembered the feeling of Lydia being in danger. "It is," she answered. "I shot it."

"That's obvious. Lütz, Alfons, detain it, please."

The two men stepped forward and struggled to rearrange Adrien, who could hardly tell what was happening.

"Where is the other one? The other creature?" The officer looked the Governor straight in the eye.

"It escaped," was the monotone answer she gave.

"You don't appear very-" The man fished for a word. "-frightened, especially for a woman. The girl could hardly speak."

Elliot frowned. " _Valtiv_ _ét."_  

The corners of the officer's mouth turned painfully upward. "I would like to know two things, Mrs. Maxime. One: why the good Mr. Koppel has been shot, and two: why you possess the rifle of a hunter by the name of Mrs. Maribelle Volleh." The officer lifted the rifle.

"See here, Madame-" He pointed to the forend of the rifle. "-her name is inscribed in the wood. I believe she is currently searching for the whereabouts of another hunter by the name of Mr. Vincent Faust; more specifically, in Rousette. Currently, she is supposed to be in Rousette." He brought the rifle to his side and leaned against the upturned stock like a cane. "So, tell me, Petra, if I may call you by such a familiar term, why is her rifle here in Chalin?"

Elliot looked up at the officer who loomed over her. "To you, I am Madame Maxime, sir. As to why Mr. Koppel is shot, it was an accident, sir, I admit; it was a frenzy, and I shot him by mistake. As you can see, we did what we could to tend to his wound. As to why Mrs. Volleh's rifle is here, how am I to know? You will have to ask Mr. Koppel. He lent it to us after the creature attacked."

Merlin stood in awe of the fluidity in which she strung together the alibi.

"Why did you come here, Madame Maxime?"

"For a drink with my husband, of course, Officer-?"

"Officer Émile Leo, Madame." His eyes lowered to her throat, and he gave a peculiar expression. "You're injured."

Émile turned. "Alfons, take care of Mr. Koppel; Lütz, take the creature outside to the others. Mr. Maxime, Madame Maxime, I'm going to have to ask you to come with us."

Lydia was not with the hunters, and, in fact, the foreboding feeling of impending danger had passed. Quite the contrary, Elliot felt at ease and even had a sense of being in control, and they went with Officer Leo willingly. However, she did not plan on spending too much of her time with the hunters, and already she began contemplating ways of escape. She doubted they cared much about them at all, and, rather, all they wanted was the _telé._

Isaac was placed in the same carriage as Elliot and Merlin, whereas Adrien was bound and transported via a cart, which a majority of the hunters there oversaw. Officers Lütz and Alfons sat atop their carriage, but Officer Leo sat inside with them. As the horses' creaky joints began to snap into motion, Émile crossed his legs, folded his hands over his knees, and smiled. "Do you know who we are?" He asked simply.     

Elliot shook her head.

"I do not care about what actually happened in that bar; I would like you to know that now. You look-" He quickly examined her outfit; his eyes were hardly off of hers for a second. "-important. You two are dressed incredibly well, and are no doubt of some considerable status, correct? I daresay I would be foolish to offend or trouble someone like that."

Elliot did not say anything, and he continued without a response.

"This being said, Madame Maxime, are you really from this country: Chalin? I do not intend to offend the people here, but the country and people in it are all poor- because of the war, of course. You are not, I am to believe."

"That is true, but, more importantly, where are you taking us?"

"Ah, but, you see, that is why I asked, Madame. We are taking you to Rousette, where we will simply ask you a few questions and, when we deem it appropriate, let you go."

Merlin's expression became cautious.

"Alright," Elliot agreed. "Take us there, Officer Leo."

Émile smiled. "I'm glad you're willing to comply, Madame Maxime."


	13. The Courageous Girl

         Now the affairs of Lydia and the poor, debilitated Maribelle shall be shown as it happened at the time Elliot left the bar with Officer Leo. Lydia was for a time, as the Governor felt, in danger; however, she was not in immediate danger. The overwhelming, sickening physical sensation Elliot felt was Lydia's own paranoia and worry, for she did know that the hunters had arrived; she knew it was only a matter of time before the girl "snitched," as she herself put it. Lydia was by no means trying to project her feelings and thoughts onto Elliot, but the bond the two shared made it so.

         The "bond" being the physical and emotional link between the two. Only Lydia knew of the connection; Elliot was clueless, but she was clueless by choice. She would know, if she paid attention. She would know of the bond if she paid attention to the fact that Lydia always seemed to know what she was thinking, or what she wanted to do; for instance, buying the train tickets to Chlealiva. Of course, Lydia established the link herself early on in their relationship, and it has been this way for years. It was a simple matter of getting Elliot alone with her and forcing her into a trance-like state and creating the bond with whatever means she had available all those years ago. Whether or not she would ever reveal the secret to Elliot is a matter for her to decide, but, perhaps ironically, Lydia believed that the less she knew, the better.

          How Lydia managed to cadge help from some poor, broken-down Chalinian family that has barely the supplies to provide for their own children will now be explained. She did not, in fact, cadge or beg for the help. She bribed them. She had stolen a purse of money from Merlin's satchel; quite a bit of money, in fact. Most likely, these were his wages for at least a few months, but, surely, these people needed it more. After all, Elliot took care of them like children; he hardly needed it for himself.

           Right away, the mother of the family gave the pouch of money to two small children, a boy and a girl, whispered something to them, and out the door they fled. The woman told Lydia to take Maribelle to one of the bedrooms, where she would tend to her. The woman was timid, tremulous; Lydia might have chalked it up to simply being the nature of the woman, until she saw that the husband, too, looked pale and dismayed. Neither of them spoke English, and Lydia pretended not to speak Friman, simply to avoid conversation. The man offered her coffee with awkward gestures and eyebrow raising, being the only means he knew how to communicate with someone who did not know his own language.

           By now, Lydia had, indeed, noticed with a deprecatory glance that the man was wearing Abraham's coat; the coat which he had given Louis Laurue. She was, by no means, going to take it from him. Abraham gave it to the boy willingly; it was Louis' now, and his to choose what to do with. The boy who left had looked familiar to her, and, because she knew the man would not understand her, said aloud, "Why, what a coincidence! To think that I'd ever see that wonderful cashmere coat again- on an unintended recipient, no less." She simpered and glared at the man.

He gave both a bewildered and a threatened look.

All of the entertainment fell from Lydia's face. "Ellas as vure mapre?" She decided pretending wasn't worth it.

The husband gave a start, and he sputtered like an old engine before finally spitting words out, "Axel Laurue, Madame."

Lydia laughed loudly and half-hunched in her seat. "So it is true! Here is the family of poor, dear Louis."

The man indeed did not understand her, but he understood his son's name. "Louis? Quella charê vou t'cän luim?"

She was in an indecorous mood; she smiled down at the small man. "Jou'ren vach luim täpeu."

The man's expression quickly switched into a dark and brooding one; his voice turned bitter, "Ceda kofét poiga, esa mettjàn lokté evrecc barach!"

"Steure barach lui doen sol," Lydia lampooned.

           The man fell silent, most likely out of some sort of embarrassment or shame at their situation. Clearly this man was not yet ready to accept the fact that they were necessitous, even if the poverty that they were buried alive in suffocated and blinded them. Lydia took the moment of quiet to look at him more closely. One could tell simply by glancing at him that he was a man of immense arrogance. He cared not for his children; he had called his own son a mongrel, and there was no doubt the girl and his wife got their share of libels. She glared down at him absently. A sudden feeling of contempt bleached her senses.

            At this moment, a surge of urgency struck her. Axel's wife was speaking gently and softly to Maribelle in the room to their right. The man was listlessly playing with his coffee, splashing it around in the flaking mug with his spoon. Outside, there was a scuffling sound and a murmur of light voices. Lydia stood from the chair. She looked around the shabby room, lit by short, dripping candles upon rusty brass pillars. The kitchen, where they sat, was an insalubrious pasticcio of dirty dishware, discarded, crumbled pieces of paper, and plethora of different sized cabinets, most of which were bare and gaping. She walked over to the door and opened it.

           The boy and the girl were standing there; the girl had her hand outstretched toward the door. The boy was holding under his arm two packages wrapped in stained cloths; one twice as large as the other. The girl was holding the bag of money Lydia had given the family. She smiled; Louis cowered; the girl scowled. The father loomed behind them. Lydia stooped and peered into the girl's face. "Steure ellas as vure mapre, vaugi faulie?"

The young girl wrinkled her nose in distaste and kicked the dirt. She looked up at Lydia with malice. "Claudia."

"Claudia?" Lydia repeated. "A pretty name for an even prettier girl." She stood.

            Claudia pushed into the house, and Louis passed timidly through under Lydia's gaze. Louis rested the two packages on the middle of the table. The larger one landed softly. The smaller package landed heavily with a clunk. Lydia smiled derisively at the packages. Claudia unwrapped the larger one. It was a round loaf of sourdough bread, a few potatoes, and several carrots. The smaller one remained concealed. Claudia busied herself quite eagerly in preparing the food as well as her childish, untrained mind could; Louis tried to help her, but was close to useless. Lydia looked down at the unopened package; Axel, too, was focused on it. She sighed dramatically and threw herself into her chair.

"Oh, I wonder what little Louis and winsome, darling Claudia bought during their adventure out into the cold streets, don't you, Monsieur Laurue?" She looked up at him. "But your wife knows, does she not?" Lydia lurched forward, accidentally shaking the table, and began to laugh vociferously. "Look at me! Speaking to someone in the one language they do not know!" She calmed down with a hum and leaned back. She looked up at Axel and jumped up.

"Oh, dear! Whatever is the matter, Monsieur Laurue? You have such a _dark_ look on your face; is something the matter?" Lydia mockingly crooned.

"Ques son vou?" Axel growled at her.

Her face became quizzical. "Who am I? Nitt mapre as Lydia, Monsieur Laurue."

" _Nent vure mapre, typhich!"_ He furiously shouted. To the side, Louis nervously stumbled over his tasks. Claudia flinched. "Ellas son vou?"

" _What_ am I?" Lydia's smile fell into a frown, and she whispered to herself, "How rude." She looked at the package and had a feeling she could guess what was inside. She then thought with a disdainful look toward Axel about how she shouldn't have left Maribelle's rifle at the bar. Lydia looked back up at the man. All of the joviality she had had diminished into indifference.

"Vou'son _telé_!"

Both Claudia and Louis had completely stopped what they were doing.

           Lydia's expression dropped as she contemplated the peasant's words. A smile broke her features like craquelure on an aging painting, and her shoulders shook as she shrieked with laughter and cachinnated with the blithe hysteria of a madman. At the same time, Axel, horror-struck and furious, finally reached toward the table, tore away the cloth tied around the object, and thus revealed the mystery. It was a hatchet; certainly, she was expecting something more. The sight of the ridiculous thing only spurred on her laughter.

"You dare compare me with such a creature! A _telé_! Tell me you're joking! Really, Laurue?" Lydia's eyes fell upon the hatchet. "And an axe! A measly hatchet! Even if I were one of those monsters, do you really think you could kill me with a _hatchet?_ "

"Sachlin vure scollet!" Axel demanded uselessly. "Sylvia! Charê si!"

           The bedroom door swung open, and Axel's wife, Sylvia, bustled through. Lydia hardly had time to turn before there was a gunshot and a shriek from Louis. Immediately, before Lydia, again, had time to react, Axel pounced like the cougar which he embodied and lodged the hatchet in the side of her neck. And, all at once, Lydia was silent; she was no longer laughing, no longer smiling, hardly breathing. Blood spurted from the wound and splattered on the table and floor, running down her side, staining her clothes and skin. Claudia could barely move; Louis was, perhaps unknowingly, shedding silent tears, the poor child.

           The man reached forward and yanked the axe out of her throat. Sylvia pulled the trigger again. Lydia fell to her knees. Axel brought the weapon down again and hit her shoulder. He cursed loudly; he hit Lydia's throat again. He hacked again, and he stopped. She fell forward with a disgusting squish and a gurgling noise as she choked. Axel stared down at her body with a sickening sense of pride; Sylvia was breathless, despite only moving a single finger. Claudia appeared outrageously angry; her teeth were clenched, and her whole being was tense. Louis had backed up against the wall, sitting, mouth agape and staring. Maribelle was unconscious, but Sylvia had done her duty. She was stable. It was quiet.

"Hevströ," he spat abhorrently. His next words were in his native language, but, for simplicity, they will be translated; they were this, "Children! Claudia, Louis, look at this _hevströ_! Look at how weak it lay in a pool of its own blood! Notice how feebly it had fought! Notice how acquiescently it fell!" Axel looked wildly in their direction; his sweat mixed with Lydia's blood, which had splattered on his face and clothes.

Claudia's fists were clenched so tightly that her knuckles were white, and she dared to shout, to growl, "You, father, are the monster! Look at what you have done to her! You have murdered her! You have murdered her at the word of some crazed woman who claimed that she was the monster! And look at us! Look at what you have done to Louis! To expose your own children to something like this, _you_ are the monster!"

"Murder? Monster? I am not a monster, nor have I murdered. I am not a monster because I am human; I am a human and, therefore, cannot be a monster, which are the real murderers. To murder is to kill a human; I have killed a monster, not a human."

Claudia looked down at trembling Louis, then up at her mother helplessly. "If she was really a monster, why would she have come here to ask us to save that other woman, father? Wouldn't she rather have had her die?"

Axel responded with an absolute certainty, "To cover up what it did. It knew the woman would die, but it tried to save her to deflect the blame."

"The woman is not dead," Sylvia interposed in a whisper.

Axel smiled superciliously. "So it failed, did it?"

"She is a hunter, the woman," Sylvia affirmed.

"Is she? See, children?" He turned to look back at Claudia and Louis. "It attacked a hunter, who no doubt was trying to kill it, like I have done." He diverted his attention to his wife. "How do you know?"

           Sylvia pulled something which was wrapped in a cloth out of the pocket of her coat. She gently loosed the dirty rag from around the object, and it fell to the floor and steeped in Lydia's warm stream of blood. It was a small jar, filled nearly half-way with a gun powder-like material. A smile embellished the woman's face as she studied what she was holding. The sight looked to offend Claudia, who grew more morose at the sight. Her mouth gaped. Axel was elated; he laughed heartily and exclaimed, " _Lourierre! Lourierre!_ The monster was after the _lourierre_! Darling wife, do you know what this means?"

"It means we will finally gain the recognition we deserve."

"So it does! What shall we do with it?"

Sylvia gave a start. "Axel? What do you mean 'what shall we do with it'? We shall hand it in to the Officer; what else?"

Axel scoffed. "Simply handing it in to the Officer will do nothing for us, woman. He is a selfish man and only wishes to elevate himself. We must do something else."

She gave him an empty look, which made him grow impatient and frown. Meanwhile, Claudia was comforting Louis and inaudibly whispering to him the plan which she had conjured.

"We shall bargain with them!"

"With who?" Sylvia absently stepped over Lydia's body and set the bottle on the table.

"With the _telé'l,_ of course!"

"Hypocrite!" Sylvia fiercely proclaimed. "You're proposing a deal with the monsters which we just verbally and physically shot down! Hypocrisy!"

"It's not as if it will benefit them, Sylvia. We will trick them. We will promise them the _lourierre_ , but it will be a trap. We will kill them all."

"Didn't you just say we weren't going to work with the others? And how to you suppose we would even find one who knew Deben?"

"There is this one." Axel kicked Lydia's arm.

"It is dead, is it not? The dead don't speak, do they?"

         Then, Claudia, furiously shouting profanities at her father, flew forward with the strength of a buck bounding away from a wolf; only, this doe was rushing toward it with nothing but justified animosity, and the doe became the wolf through its anger. She grabbed the first thing her hand touched- the tea pot- and brought it down upon his shoulder. It shattered, and the hot tea inside singed his skin. Axel cursed and cried out in pain. As he turned to strike her, he tripped and fell, but it was not Claudia who tripped him; it was Lydia, for she was still alive. She was right in declaring a mere hatchet would not kill her, after all.

         In a flurry of blood and ripped clothing, Lydia pushed herself up into a standing position. Her head fell limply to the side, and she was unable to move her right arm. Her collar bone had snapped, and the sharp, jagged edge of it stuck out of her skin. Lydia pulled her head up by her hair with her left arm and looked disdainfully at her broken bone. One more strike to the neck, and she _would_ have been dead. The fool had overestimated himself. Lydia could not breathe, but breathing was just for show; she didn't have to breathe. She could not speak, but she did not need to. Her blood-shot eyes scanned the room. Sylvia was terrified. Lydia smiled and displayed her bloody teeth.

         All at once, she stomped forward, let go of her head, and seized Sylvia's hand. She took away the pistol and haphazardly shot toward her, all in seconds. It hit Sylvia's chest. She slumped to the ground. There was a shuffling in the bedroom- Maribelle, no doubt-, but she turned to Axel indifferently. Lydia's curling smile had fixed itself onto her face. Axel peered up at her, terror-struck and shouted, "Hevströ!" She stared down at him and mused to herself the possibility of killing him. Her eyes fell upon the bottle, and she took it and stuffed it in her coat. Claudia was frozen; for the first time, she was shocked, not angry.

"Jesus," Lydia heard the horrified whisper from Maribelle.

         Lydia turned around. She walked up to the noblewoman and almost effortlessly threw her over her shoulder. The blood soaked through Maribelle's clothes and rubbed against her pale skin. She grunted in pain but did not struggle against Lydia; she was afraid to. Lydia gave Claudia a passive look, like an eagle gazing upon a worm. She tried to rasp something to the girl, but the only thing that came was a low hiss. She left the house.

         However, before Lydia managed to shuffle even a yard away from the house, Claudia, the brave, wonderful, young girl came running out, dragging Louis by his wrists. She heard them, stopped, turned, and looked down at the girl with something more than passiveness this time; it was something akin to interest, to something even more than that, to a knowing glance like that which is shared between those who hold a secret with each other. And, in looking at Lydia's grotesquely disfigured face, at her snapped collarbone, at her monstrous strength, at her blood-stained coat, at her open, cut throat, at the fact that she was still alive despite any of that, at the fact that she shouldn't have been, at the fact that Lydia was everything but human, at the fact that Lydia was anything but good, the courageous girl looked up at her and dared to ask, "Will you take us with you?"


	14. The Moon and The Pebble

         If Claudia was not three years older than Louis, one would think that they were twins. Both had the pale skin of their mother; both had the black hair of their father, but neither of them had inherited his pride nor his scorn for those unlike himself. Alike they might have been in their appearance, but they were as different as a lowly rock at the bottom of a stream which gives way to the pull of the water and the gleaming moon that takes ahold of the tide and which gives way to nothing but the pull of the earth. Claudia was the moon, and Louis was the pebble. Claudia was the immovable boulder; Louis was the grain of sand. But as many times as Claudia proved herself to be what she is and as many times as Louis had failed to prove himself as something other than what he was, the boulder was cast away and the grain of sand was worshipped. That is, they favored Louis despite his timidity and frailness.  
         Claudia was the one who took care of Louis; Claudia was the one who took care of herself. When one is favored by the people who happened to be their parents, this only means that you were tolerated. Since Claudia was not the favorite, she was dependent on only herself; Louis was dependent upon her. Both of the children were born during the war; both were accustomed to their situation. Claudia's character bloomed in the independence; Louis' character wound like a spool of thread in the isolation. His character was wound, but this only meant that it would one day spring out again and shutter into movement like the cogs of a clock.  
        Neither of them were very beautiful children. Both were emaciated from hunger, both had grey skin from illness, and both had glassy eyes from tears. While neither of them were fleshly beautiful, they were wondrous in their own ways. Claudia was exquisite because of her tenacity and gallantry; Louis was marvelous because of his sequestered potential that was eclipsed by his demure nature, but, as buried as it was, Claudia saw it and loved him for it. As his senior sister and as his guardian and protector, it was her duty to love him, just as it was his to love her for caring, and loved her he did.  
        " _Haurs"_ was the nickname Claudia had affectionately reserved for Louis and was a name she used so much when speaking with him that it had nearly replaced his proper one. " _Chisé"_ was the name Louis had reserved for Claudia, which was a sort of joke to mock what she called him. Since that day, that is what they have been called: the _haurs_ and the _chisé,_ the _mouse_ and the _cat,_ and what a perfect duo were they! They hardly visited their own house, instead preferring to roam the streets like the seeds of a dandelion being swept away by the spring zephyrs. Many of those who saw the couple perusing the roads of Bopaume thought that they were orphans, for none of them had ever seen an adult accompaniment. Nevertheless, no onlookers bothered to speak or to consider them past the fact that they were called the _haurs_ and the _chisé._ To the strangers, they had no other name and no other existence than to be the _haurs_ and the _chisé.  
        _But now they would no longer be considered as less than, and no longer would they be seen in Bopaume to scavenge for whatever food they could scrape from the streets. They had joined Lydia for something better, whatever that might be, for Lydia had allowed them to tag along with her and Maribelle as she slowly pushed herself toward Elliot. Even if she was miles away, even if she was on the opposite side of the border, even if she knew that there would be no way the guards would allow her through the gates in her peculiar state, Lydia would find a way to the Governor.  
        Now, the present time shall be stated.  
        Claudia walked next to Lydia; her eyes were trained forward, fists clenched, teeth gritted. She tried not to look at Lydia. Louis walked behind Lydia; his eyes were wide, staring, timidly stumbling over his feet. He grabbed Claudia's wrist; she loosened her tense hand and wrapped it around his own. Lydia abruptly stopped. She stooped and set Maribelle down on her feet. The woman recoiled at the sight of her savior. "What the hell happened to you?" She asked more out of disgust than out of concern. Lydia tried to answer but could only hiss and gurgle, like something being deflated or like someone drowning. She looked to the side of the narrow road, out into the forest. Then, she mutely pointed to the ground and held up her palm as if she were commanding a dog.  
"And where do you think you're going?" Maribelle asked, expecting an answer even though she understood fully well that Lydia could not speak.  
She jabbed at the forest behind them.  
"And you're just going to leave me with _them_?" The noblewoman gave the children a certain look.  
Lydia pointed to the forest, to them, and back at the concrete, indicating that she would come back. Maribelle gave her a clueless look.  
"Just go, then. But if you don't come back, don't expect me to wait."  
        Lydia knew Maribelle especially couldn't walk very far with her injuries which were rather poorly treated for by Sylvia, so she turned and ambled into the forest. If it was not already clear, Lydia was going to attempt to heal herself. As soon as the trees completely concealed her, she fell to her knees on the underbrush. The injury burned, burned worse than acid, burned worse than fire, and it seemed to envelope her entire body, wrapping around each and every nerve and mercilessly constricting around them, as if they were being suffocated. Her arms could barely hold her weight as she crouched on the dirt; she coughed and hacked like it was going to expel the pain. When she could handle it, Lydia forced herself to stand and falter through the wood.  
         Lydia's eyes desperately darted from plant to plant, searching for whatever resembled what she needed; as long as it was alike, it would be good enough. She slowed down and leaned against a tree, stooped, and brought to her face a ground plant that resembled ivy. She tore off the leaves and stuffed them in her open throat. She kneeled for the pain and let out an animalistic, instinctive groan. It burned, but she knew that it was working. Her skin was prickling, and she recognized this as a good thing. She would have turned to heal herself faster, but she did not want to risk being seen, nor could she waste the time and leave Maribelle and the children alone.  
        As much as Lydia would hate to admit it to herself, Axel was close in his attempt to kill her. She sat there for several minutes, staring at her blood and dirt-stained hands, breathless, feeling the burning sensation of the plants, waiting as she slowly regained control of her neck. It took her a few moments to realize that she was crying. Her tears seared her skin. She began to excessively salivate; she twitched, and her back convulsed. Lydia turned and vomited on the forest floor. She coughed and coughed until blood oozed from her mouth. She pulled herself up by a low-hanging branch. A gentle breeze picked up her dark, slovenly hair. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, again and again, until her breaths came in and out without a hitch or a hiss. Her collarbone was the least of her worries; she would fix it later.  
  
 _"Auret vou moku jotwe, lissi, liere?"  
  
        _Lydia stopped mid-breath. She cracked open her eyes, just barely enough to see through. The same whisper echoed through her mind, through the crowns of the trees, as if an angel had sighed the phrase. It was a familiar sentence. She closed her eyes again as it repeated itself; she thought back to when she heard it. It seemed like an eternity ago, and, in a sense, it was. It was the voice of a ghost, a ghost she wished she could forget. It was _she;_ it was Delilah. Her breath seemed to trip over itself when it left her mouth as a gasp. Lydia's eyes opened as if they had been forced open, and her tears fell hot and anew. She supported herself on a tree as she stood there, motionless, silent, with a mournful air. She blinked rapidly; Lydia knew it was a hallucination, but it was a good hallucination, a hallucination she would rather have kept as reality, a hallucination she wished could be the present instead of the past, instead of her past.  
        Nevertheless, with a weight upon her shoulders and a heart even heavier, she pulled and tugged on her anchor-like legs until they took her out of the ravaging waters that was the forest. The walk back to Maribelle seemed to take twice as long as it had to walk away from her. On the way, Lydia could not help but wonder to herself about why she had experienced it. She wasn't certain of her hunch, but she had a strong feeling that she knew the cause. She wasn't certain if he was even alive, but she knew he must have been; he must have felt her presence, for she had certainly felt his. But why? Why would he do that to her? Perhaps he would show himself to Lydia in the future, and perhaps he would tell her why. However, in order to understand what all this means, one first must know who "he" is.  
        The "he" which Lydia thinks of is not of her former lover, whose story she had confided in the Governor; in fact, he was the man who had brought his downfall into insanity, as Lydia had said. The he whom she speaks is the same he who turned her into a monster. It is no mystery and does not take much to suppose that they had kept in touch throughout the years. One might question why Lydia did so; wouldn't she hate him for what he did? It was not he who did anything, and it was not he who she hated. The man did not force her to do anything, did not trick her into doing anything; she made the decision for herself. She was the one who did it, and it was she who she hated; that is, she hated herself for it. She held no grudge and no vendetta against the man, who was really as kind-hearted and as passive as is expected at his age.  
        First, it must be said that he is of the same being as is Lydia and her bygone lover, and it also must be said that he, Lydia, and the bygone lover are all some of the last of those very beings. They are not necessarily dying out, for they can live until they are killed. The problem the creatures are facing is that they have ceased to be made. Unlike _telé_ , the creatures are not born this way. They can only be made through another or through a "shaman," as they are called. This was how Lydia and her lover were made, through "he", through the shaman. However, since shaman are alike to these men, but not exactly the same, the "shaman" shall now be referred to as " _tu de mé"_ or " _tudemé"._  
        The _tudemé_ will be discussed again, when it comes time that he is finally revealed, which Lydia felt may not be so far off. "Lydia!" Maribelle snapped. "Where exactly have you been?"  
She inhaled deeply and suddenly, like someone being awoken. "In the forest, of course." She flaunted her newly repaired throat and smiled haughtily. "As you can see, I've been doing some sewing and washing."  
Maribelle considered Lydia's work. "You still have quite a bit to do, then. Perhaps you should find a mirror."  
She ignored the slightly insulting comment and continued, "I must say that I do feel quite a bit better. Can you walk, Madame?"  
The noblewoman scrunched up her nose in offense. "Of course I can. Who do you think I am?"  
Lydia sobered a little. "Apologies, Madame. I did not mean any offense."  
Maribelle did not answer.  
She turned to the children. "Claudia, Louis?"  
Louis gave a start; Claudia glared down at her, although she was half the woman's size. "Yes?" Claudia asked, with a hint of pretentiousness.  
Lydia gave a wide, crocodilian smile. "Would you mind staying here to protect Maribelle for a little while? I'm afraid I have to go back to retrieve the carriage, if the hunters haven't taken it, that is."  
"And what if they have?" Maribelle interjected.  
"At least I tried."  
The noblewoman scoffed degradingly, as if that had been the most outrageous thing she had ever heard. "What a monumental waste of time! Aren't you dying to get back to your _liere_?"  
"Certainly I am. This will take no time, believe me, Madame."  
Maribelle grunted and hunched over, wrapping one of her arms around her midsection. "Well, hurry, then! You're wasting all of our time!"  
        And, with a wink toward the children, Lydia made her way back in the direction they had come. Perhaps she would run into Axel, she thought, and perhaps she would show him just how strong a monster could be. But then Lydia reminded herself of how belligerent that was and reprimanded herself for it. She had killed his wife and had taken his children; how cruel would it be of her to kill the man himself? Still, the doubt about her ability angered Lydia. Shouldn't hunters, especially, know how powerful they could truly be? Or were they far too arrogant to realize it? Perhaps she was being vain; perhaps she was, indeed, implying that she was superior, but the least they could do was acknowledge her strength before destroying it.  
        Nevertheless, Lydia hardly glanced in the direction of the man's home when she passed and instead quickened her step. The street was deserted. She lowered her head and wished that she had taken Abraham's coat from Axel, despite what she had first said. As Lydia walked, she felt the air grow colder. She felt the cold instinctually, not in the sense that it literally got colder, but she felt the cold like an animal can feel a storm coming on. She felt it in her bones, building up in her chest the way water builds up behind a dam. She felt it gradually, as fog sequentially rolls over hills, but it was strong, biting. Lydia did not mind the feeling, even if she knew what it meant. In fact, she welcomed it, for it was a familiar sensation.  
        There the carriage was. In the distance, she could see the grey metal of the horses, standing as still and as stiff as statues in the semi-darkness. Their arched necks and pointed ears gleamed in the mist and offered a beacon of comfort with such a familiar sight. As Lydia grew closer, she could hear the sharp puffing of the steam forced through their carved nostrils and the grinding of gears, which worked continuously inside their metal casing to keep the machine "alive". She smiled and waved toward them, as if greeting a dear friend. "Hello, dear Bertoldt! _Haju_ , dear Dimitri!" Bertoldt and Dimitri being, of course, the names she had given them.  
        They did not move. Lydia whistled shrilly. A loud shudder echoed as both machines trembled and shook themselves into life at the piercing sound of her whistle. She grabbed the side of the carriage and flung herself into the coachbox, taking up the reins and whip, both of which were mostly just for show. Lydia whistled again, and, before she got the chance to use the whip for once, the machines suddenly lurched forward and dramatically shook the carriage, which elicited an entertained cheer from Lydia. Thus, the carriage rumbled down the streets with a noise not unlike gunshots, often teetering precariously to one side whenever they galloped over an irregularity in their path. "Onward, _nitt chistilla'l!"_ Lydia gleefully shouted, theatrically waving her whip in the air in a perhaps flawed reminiscence of the _vaqueros_ of America.  
        By the time Lydia had yanked the reins back to jerk the horses into a parlous, abrupt halt, the moon had dug itself out of the horizon and had pulled the stars out with it, and Maribelle was entirely cross with her. Her incensement only swelled when she witnessed how recklessly Lydia had been driving. "Miss Blackwater!" The noblewoman shouted. "Are you intent on destroying the Governor's carriage along with her horses  _again_?"  
Lydia stepped down from her coachbox and answered sarcastically, "Yes, well, if it is the cost of getting to my Madame as soon as possible, so as not to leave her in the cold, dark streets in the night, I should do anything." She swung the door open, waving inside with her arm. "Children first, of course. Claudia, Louis."  
Claudia took Louis by the hand and politely allowed him to enter the carriage before her. She sat beside him and looked at Lydia with a scrutinizing scan. "Thank you."  
The creature gave her a smile and a throaty chuckle. "My pleasure, dear. Madame Volleh, would you like assistance?"  
        But Maribelle was already half way in before Lydia finished her sentence. She pushed it shut with a gentle push. Then, Lydia resituated herself in the coachbox, retook the reins, and again prompted the horses forward with the only sound they knew to obey: her whistle. And before she realized it, it was completely dark; the carriage was completely silent. No doubt, they were comfortably asleep inside. The thought of it made Lydia smile. The road in front of them became rougher, rockier. The rows of houses thinned to the side; the forest line receded into the distance, and all that was left was plains. These were the only indicators that told her they were entering the abandoned city of Aerile. Hardly could it still be called a city.  
        Weeds and wildflowers grew over the fallen ruins of burned buildings and covered them with their blooms. The road would have been conquered if it weren't for the occasional carriage or cart that road through to Bopaume from Prueilim. The fresh green of the grass stretched out to either side appeared only black and foreboding in the darkness, like something was awaiting them, watching them like a predator would watch their prey. They passed a lichen-infested statue of Jeanne d'Arc, standing stock-still in the night, bearing the French flag, amid an empty fountain whose water ran no more. In front of them, quickly approaching, was a broken pole, and atop that broken pole, tangled and trampled on the ground, was a torn Chalinian flag, faded of color but still somewhat visible. It seemed even Chalin's own people no longer cared for their flag. The horses trod over it.  
        Soon, the darkness was split by a light in the sky, an axe through the wood which was the night. It was bright, fiery; it was a torch. They had no lights on or in the carriage; Lydia was sure they could not see them. She pulled the reins back; the horses came to a slow stop. Another torch joined the other; they were tiny specks in the distance. It could not be the wall, for they had not even entered Prueilim, yet. Lydia looked around; there were no ruins, but a field; the fields of Aerile, specked with beautiful, vibrant wildflowers and covered with long, untamed grass. Still, they were a ways away from Prueilim. For what reason were they in a meadow, in the dead of night, in a country at war? The lights were not fading; they were growing closer.  
        Lydia contemplated what to do. She decided to move forward, so she put the horses in motion again. Certainly whoever they were was nothing she couldn't handle. The lights stopped moving, and they grew nearer, nearer, until they were right beside the carriage. The light illuminated Lydia's face, and this was when she regretted healing herself. Perhaps giving them a little scare would have been amusing. She stopped the carriage and looked to her right, where a man was advancing. He spoke in an English accent, "What business have you here?"  
"Just passing through, I believe," Lydia answered.  
"You do realize Prueilim has been taken?"  
"Taken?"  
"By Rousette."  
"By Rousette?"  
"Prueilim is now Rousette-owned, and the border wall is being extended. No passers-by allowed."  
"Oh, dear, how unfortunate. Duchess Rousseau allowed it?"  
The man squinted at her. "She did."  
"That is quite unlike her, don't you think? Is there a way I might get into Rousette?"  
"What purpose do you have?"  
"I must get back to my Governor, of course. I do hope she is being well-cared for."  
"Governor? The Governor of Fluie? Governor Phorus?"  
"Yes, yes, that's the one! I am her assistant, of sorts."  
The guard gave her a suspicious look.  
"She was traveling with others, I believe, as well as a _creature,_ quite peculiar."  
"Creature? You mean-"  
"The _telé,_ yes."  
"You know of them?"  
"I do."  
"Are you a hunter?" He tread carefully over his words, as if he were stepping through a bog, as if it were a secret passed between them.  
"If I say no?"  
"You will be turned away."  
"If I say I have a wounded hunter and hunter children with me?"  
"Do you?"  
"Maribelle Volleh and Louis and Claudia Laurue."  
He stood erect and went pale. "Madame Volleh? She is here- with you?"  
"She has been looked for?"  
"Extensively, yes! We have been looking for her for days!"  
"She is injured, badly, by a _telé."  
"_By a _telé_?" The man went from afraid to anxious. "She was not bitten?"  
"I do not believe so, only clawed at."  
"That is good to hear. May I see her?"  
"Certainly you may." Lydia hopped down from the coachbox and opened the door.  
        Maribelle came flying out, and all was a blur. In the end, the man lay writhing on the ground; a hatchet was lodged in his throat. The axe Lydia identified as the one she was attacked with. She looked down upon the body and thought it sort of humorous. "Oh, my," she said. The second man yelled something and shot at them; it hit the door. Lydia took the hatchet from the man's neck and walked toward the second guard. He shot her shoulder as if it wasn't broken enough. He tried to hurriedly reload, but she brought the hatchet down on his hand, then his chest, then his head when he had fallen on the ground. Lydia walked back to Maribelle.  
"Dear me, what was that all about, Madame Volleh?"  
"They are not hunters."  
"I realize this, but why did you attack the man?"  
Maribelle stared down at them. "He was in the forest."  
"Pardon?" She threw the hatchet to the floor of the carriage, where it was snatched by Claudia.  
"When the carriage crashed and Abraham went missing, he was there. I'm sure of it. I remember."  
"Memories can be deceiving."  
"He was that _creature_ ; how did they find us?" She looked about wildly in the darkness; she was pale, sweating, shaking. "I thought I had killed all of them."  
While Lydia was quite sure that Maribelle was right, that he had been there, she was clearly not in her right mind. Perhaps it was a story for another time. "If that is so, we had better get a move on before they recuperate. We need to get into Rousette as soon as possible."  
        And so, when Maribelle was safely away in the carriage and Lydia had commanded the horses forward, they were gone from that place, and Lydia was sure that they had killed two innocent guards. It was not as if she cared; she just thought that Maribelle shouldn't have done something so drastic and risk injuring herself further. What a shame it would be should Abraham return, only to realize that his wife had been killed by her own ambition to find him.  
        When they got to Prueilim, Lydia found that the guards were right. Construction was underway to extend the wall to the southern borders of the province, securing the territory for Rousette. But why? Didn't Duchess Rousseau want to set Chalin free? Or, perhaps, she wanted more than that. Perhaps she really wanted to unify the two countries. Lydia thought about how foolish that would be, that her Duchess was better than that. Then she thought that maybe her Duchess wasn't as good as she thought she was, as Elliot thought she was. She remembered with how much faith and with how much irreproachableness the Governor spoke of the Duchess, and, so, Lydia also had faith in their Duchess. There were no guards, no lights; the gate and parts of the wall were demolished. All of the Chalinian citizens had been chased out of Prueilim, she suspected, forced back to Bopaume.  
        And, so, she road through the gate without a hitch and only thought of how she coud potentially humiliate or punish the ones who stole the Governor from her. Lydia smiled at the thought.


	15. Burn

       Softly, silently, Ballast landed on Lydia's shoulder and folded up its wings with a grind that was painful to listen to from afar, much less right next to her ear. As Lydia bobbed subtly up and down with the horse's strides, Ballast crouched and fell into a state as close to sleep as a creature who can't sleep can manage. "Lazy thing," Lydia whispered. "Can't even deliver a message, if that's what its even here for. Perhaps you just came to bum a ride, hm? Well, that's why you have wings, and you should consider yourself lucky. Not many things have wings, and not many things can go on flying for days without stopping."  
        And, before Lydia began to think herself non compos mentis for talking to a hunk of flying metal, Ballast jumped up with a terrible screech and flapped its wings wildly. It cut Lydia's cheek with the sharp edge of it, and she brushed him off her shoulder. She heard the small clunk of Ballast hitting the ground and smiled. The carriage continued on without it. However, less than a minute later, Ballast landed on her shoulder again. This time, he did deliver a message, and it was this:  
        "Blackwater, this is a warning," the Governor's voice was serious, grave. "If you know where I am, which I am sure you do, you know who I am with. We have stopped already, but we are not in the city. I am not sure where we are. One of the hunters allowed me to record this. I have a feeling something is going to happen, but this entails the warning: do not come. As much as you think you can handle them, as strong as you think you are, you cannot, you are not. I repeat, do not come. They will kill you, as they are readying to kill the _telé._ You know how it works."  
        The message ended.   
        Lydia was going, anyway. She had made up her mind before she had even left Axel's home to find the Governor. The message had as little of an effect on her mind as a fly resting on the back of an elephant, even if, like Elliot had said, she knew how it worked. She knew how they kill _telé._ It is the same as everything else. To truly kill it, to truly erase its existence, one must burn a monster. Of course, there were other ways depending on the creature, but one way always remained dependable, unchanging, without fail: fire. For _telé,_ it is silver and fire. For witches, it is drowning and fire. For _tudemé,_ it is hanging and fire. For those like Lydia, it is decapitation and fire. It is fire for all because they are afraid of pain; why would they become a monster? To avoid pain. Could one think of a more painful death? The slow burning of the flesh, starting with the feet, crawling to the head, before the boils burst open and spill forth blood and fat and the skin sheds itself by the layers. If not that, slow suffocation; the smoke from the flames floods the lungs, and, as the victim struggles to breathe, breathes in more.  
        The thought of it struck Lydia with more fear than death itself. But what struck in Lydia more fear than death, more fear than fire, was loneliness, so she went forward.  
        In fact, the message only spurred her forward. It gave her more resolve than ever to seek out and save the Governor, if not to spare the Governor from witnessing such a terrible thing, then for herself and for Ruth and for Abraham and for Jeanne, the small, frail, mourning wife of Francis. Certainly the hunters would not harm Elliot, especially since they now knew she was a governor, which they must, Lydia assumed, because they knew who she herself was, as Elliot had said, and no one had been seen with the Governor of Fluie more than Lydia. The only question was this: they knew _who_ she was, but how did they know _what_ she was? This, Elliot had not explained.  
"So you're not as much of a loafer as I thought," Lydia said to the bird.  
Ballast settled back down on Lydia's shoulder.  
"Alright," she gave in. "You may rest, but, when we return, you must be off."  
        Where had Officer Leo taken Elliot and Merlin? He had taken them to the forests of Fluie, which is where the carriage crash had taken place. Elliot did not recognize it as of yet. He had intentionally taken her back to her province. But why had he taken them to Elliot's province? Why not someplace else? Because he wanted to show her that he had power of her, that he could get away with whatever he liked. It was not until later when Elliot realized where they were that he would find himself gravely mistaken.  
        Now, they found themselves in the clearing of a forest; it was a beautiful spot, blooming with the liveliness of spring, bursting with life, soon to be tarnished with the ashes of death. Officer Alfons, Officer Lütz, and two other hunters felled a tree to prepare the burning spot. Elliot then realized that, perhaps, they were not doing this simply to kill the _telé;_ they were doing this to show off. Isaac did not seem to loathe them as much as he had at the bar. He had asked them, in his raspy whisper, to help him free Adrien. As much as Isaac already hated them, he hated hunters more. He asked to help him free Adrien and leave. Elliot and Merlin agreed. The only question, now that the Governor had told Lydia not to come, was how they would pull it off. Adrien could have fought, if he wasn't half-dead. Elliot and Merlin could have fought, if their weapons had not been taken from them. Isaac certainly was ready to fight, but he was injured.  
        They could not conspire with one another to the side, for Officer Leo kept a close eye on them. By a close eye, what is meant is that Èmile never left their side and made conversation as if all was perfectly normal. Somehow, Èmile projected authority, which even Elliot had to admit. Perhaps it was the pristine, blue tailcoat, the stiff, golden collar, or the pompous white feather that protruded from his black top hat in the style of the French that gave off this aura. Every other hunter seemed to be influenced by this aura, even Alfons and Lütz, who looked to be, if not the same rank of Èmile, close to it. Abruptly, Èmile turned toward them. He smiled.  
"You realize I am not a fool?" He asked.  
"I know you know who I am."  
He continued good naturedly. "Good. It makes the whole thing less complicated for the both of us. I am a Rousettean citizen, you know. I've known who you are since you became the Governor."  
"And where are you from?"  
"I was born in the capital, Governor."  
"Really? How unique."  
The man could not help but wince at her sarcasm.  
"The Saint Elisabêt District, to be exact."  
"Interesting," the Governor responded, trying to sound as disinterested as possible. The Saint Elisabêt District in the capital was known for violence and poor security.  
Officer Leo continued as if she hadn't said anything. "Unlike most here, I am not from a long line of hunters. As far as I know, I am the only one."  
This somewhat peaked Elliot's interest. "Really? Why is that?"  
Èmile lifted the drinking canister that was attached to his belt and drank some of whatever was in it. There was a moment of silence. "Do you know what happened in Saint Elisabêt?"  
"If I do, I do not remember."  
"Ah, you're probably too young; you look young. It happened when I was still small."  
"You're not much older than I am. Perhaps I heard of it once. Tell me." Merlin gave her a cautious look.  
"I didn't get much publicity, not like it would have if it happened today. The district was-" Èmile had an unsure look. "-run through- by a few of them."  
"By the _telé?"_  
"Yes. The district is small. It's somewhat, well- isolated from the rest of the capital. Not many people live there, except the poor and jobless. People moved on as if nothing had happened. The mentioning of _telé'l_  was considered taboo back then. I suppose it is because the people are so damn superstitious." He looked down at her. "Excuse my language."  
  
 _"Excuse my language."  
  
        _Èmile's arm froze mid-air, halfway in the motion of bringing the canister back up toward his lips. He looked at the Governor again; she was looking at him. Merlin seemed to have heard it, too. The other hunters obliviously carried on with their business. He dropped his canister and swiftly yanked his rifle from about his shoulders.  
"What the hell was that?" He shouted.  
  
 _"EXCUSE my language."  
  
        _The Governor turned and pretended to be looking about them to hide her smile. She had never heard Lydia execute such a perfect imitation. Merlin appeared frightened. Of course, he was. He did not yet know what Lydia could be capable of. Elliot did not try to appear bewildered. Èmile knew who and what Lydia was and what she was here to do. Then, suddenly, he caught the Governor off guard and struck the butt of his rifle against her head. As she fell to her knees, Merlin ducked down to help her, but Èmile fired and hit Merlin's hand. He cried out; Officer Alfons and Lütz rushed over to the scene. The other hunters pulled out their arms at their command and remained on guard.  
        But Elliot would not allow herself to be this vulnerable again, not after it had already happened in the bar. Dizzily, shakily, she grabbed the barrel of the rifle and attempted to rip it out of his hands while he was busy with forcing her to her feet, but he was strong. Instead, Èmile threw her to the ground and aimed the weapon toward her. Elliot glared up at him; he stared down at her. He was breathing heavily; his eyes were wild, tempestuous. The officer raised his eyes toward the tree-line. The untamed mountains that loomed in the distance could not compare in ferocity to the expression he held.  
"Well?" Èmile yelled out. His hat lay on the ground; he smoothed his hair, straightened his back, and regained some of his composure. "Don't be a coward. Are you going to-"  
        The Governor grabbed the barrel of the rifle and forced it backward. The stock slipped from his shoulder and slammed into his chin, bringing a justified end to his cocky one-sided conversation. This time, she successfully stole it from him and was on her feet again. Alfons and Lütz took aim at her; Elliot took aim at Èmile. Not one hunter helped Merlin, moaning and bleeding on the ground. "Felix, Ivan," Èmile seethed, glaring at the Governor. "Kill the _telé."_  
"Don't," Elliot ordered.  
Both stopped in their tracks.  
Officer Leo howled, "What is she to you? Kill it, dammit!"  
But neither of them moved, for it was not Elliot who they were afraid of.  
        Behind the stake, just in front of the trees, antlers sprouted, wide, majestic, tranquil; the creature they were attached to was not, however, quite as beautiful. It was monstrously tall and hideously thin. The skin around its face had long rotted away; the skull was exposed, the skull of a buck. Its eyes bulged from their sockets, blood shot and unmoving. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth, waggling in the air. The smell was terribly sickening. Its arms and legs were lanky, spare. It advanced.  
"My God!" Felix, Officer Alfons, whispered.  
"What are you waiting for?" Èmile roared. " _Fire!"_  
        The creature shrieked, screamed, bounded toward them, swung its giant, clawed hand toward the stake and unearthed it. It tumbled to the side. The hunters fired. The bullets hit and tore, but the creature did not tire. Officer Ivan Lütz, however, quietly stole off to the side. He emerged from the carriage with a torch, spitting and hissing with flames, and a cask of gasoline that was used to power the horses. The creature stopped and eyed him. It pressed down upon the hunter which lay under its great hand. What they found strange was that the monster did not kill the hunters but destroyed their weapons. It knew they would not dare provoke it further if they had nothing to harm it with. Yet here was Ivan, holding the torch high and distributing the oil upon the ground. Hunters scattered toward the carriages.  
        The monster did not recoil, but it looked at him curiously, patiently, waiting to see what his next action would be. If his goal was to frighten the beast, he must actually threaten it. The gasoline made a line between them and the creature. Elliot did not know who to aim for. Surely, if she took her eyes from Èmile, he would retake his arm, but no one was going to stop Ivan. Isaac could hardly stand. A young hunter had finally taken pity and gave Merlin aid, but it seemed that there was nothing that could be done to save his hand. It was silent and tense. Elliot shared a glance with the creature as if looking toward it for advice. "Officer Lütz, stand down, if you please," said the Governor.  
He looked back at her. "Governor?"  
She gave him a reproachful stare.  
        Ivan stepped away from the line of gasoline.  The creature did not go forward. Elliot brought the rifle away from Èmile. Felix lowered his arm from the Governor. Elliot looked toward the monster. She gave a start. She looked around and back at it. She did not question how it managed to communicate with her without a voice. She trusted it. The Governor recognized their surroundings, for they had passed a clearing similar to this before the crash. Even if she was mistaken, it was better than nothing.  
"We are in Fluie, are we not?"  
Officer Leo smiled. "We are."  
Then, Elliot smiled. "Since we are currently in the land which I am in control, I am afraid I must order you to leave."  
"What?" His smile fell.  
"Leave. If you ever step foot in the province of Fluie again, you will be arrested."  
"Arrested? Arrest me? You cannot arrest me, for I _am_ the government. I _am_ the police force. I am the one who arrests. Even so, on what grounds?"  
"On my land, you are nothing because I say you are nothing. On my land, _I_ am the government; _I_ am the police force." She repeated, "If you ever step foot in the province of Fluie again, you will be arrested on the grounds of murder and attempted murder."  
"And whom did I murder?"  
"You have murdered the _telé."_ For, in the fray, Elliot had witnessed a hunter shoot Adrien, and he, indeed, was dead. "Leave."  
        And Èmile, with a resigned but livid look, stooped to pick up his hat. He ordered the hunters to get ready to be off. He stared down at her, still, while his hunters scurried around to gather their things. Elliot straightened her back, raised her head, relishing her power. He hesitated. He was too full of himself, she could tell. Then, he relaxed, and his face lost its anger and its pride. His gaze was softer when it matched hers again. Elliot's softened, too, but it was out of surprise.  
Èmile's voice was almost a whisper when he said, "Accept my apology, Governor. Clearly I have underestimated you and your-" He avoided looking in the direction of the creature and instead looked at Merlin, who was now standing. The hunter was still with him. "-companions. I swear to you-" He stopped, thought, and started again, "You have my word that you will never again see me in Fluie. But you must remember, Governor, that I have a duty to fulfill. If that duty brings me to Fluie, I will come unapologetically, for my duty is the reason I live. I am not going to hope that you will understand. That is up to you."   
        He turned and left. The hunters were gone within minutes. Elliot found herself alone with Isaac, Merlin, Adrien, and the creature. Isaac was silently weeping. Elliot was not the only one who had seen what the hunter had done. The creature crouched and slowly crawled toward the Governor. "Blackwater, go back and bring the carriage here." The monster bowed its head and stumbled away. "Mr. Koppel?"  
"What?" He growled.  
"I am sorry."  
"Like hell you are," he seethed.  
"What would you like to do?"  
"Take us back to Chalin and get the hell out of my life."   
        Then, the carriage slowly rolled out of the trees. Lydia sat in the coachbox, guiding them slowly along. She was herself again. They attached the cart to the carriage. Elliot helped Merlin into it. Isaac insisted to ride in the cart, so they let him alone. Elliot squeezed in and did not question why there were two bony children with them. The carriage started forward again, and they started toward Chalin again.  
        The sun was beginning to rise when they crossed the border. The sun was even higher in the sky when they finally reached the "L'arbre Vivant". Isaac unhitched the cart himself. Elliot got out of the carriage. She looked at him with pity. His only living relative and, perhaps, his only love had perished. He looked at her more gently the second time around. "Are you quite sure you would not like our help?"  
Isaac was silent for a second. "We'll be fine. There's a certain way that _telé'l_ send off their dead. It's complicated. I'll be fine."  
The Governor nodded. "But about the brothers-"  
"I'll be here," he snapped. "Ain't got anywhere else to go, just don't ask me now, alright?" Isaac broke off from their shared gaze. "You tried."   
        Elliot said her goodbyes and reentered the carriage. Merlin suggested that, perhaps, they should go to a hospital, if not for the fact that he no longer had a hand, then for the fact that Maribelle was starting to hallucinate and the children were half starved and that they were all terribly tired. He already told Lydia to take them there. She nodded solemnly. They would start again later.


	16. Strong Enough

        Èmile was strong enough to admit that he was angry. To throw him out of an entire province, to hold him at gunpoint, to scare his hunters, to destroy their rifles, to threaten to imprison him should he ever step foot in the land again, for what? For doing his job? For protecting the people? For sparing her life when he easily could have killed her? She thought he was prideful, but the real vain was closer to home. And the fact that she _owned_ a monster herself, the fact that she was alright with these things walking, was completely unacceptable.  
        That is why he was contacting another group of hunters. They were controversial, per se. They were technically hunters, but they were hunters known for their cruelty and unfairness. Often, they skinned the  _telé_ or sold the body whole in exchange for other things, like alcohol, drugs, weapons, and the like. They were a band of sailors from Finland. Certainly, Èmile did not like them, but they did not act or look like conventional hunters. All the better in order to get his hands on whatever creature Elliot had and snuff out its existence. For now, they would not do anything; they would only watch the Governor and her servant. Sailors weren't exactly spies, but they agreed to do anything for money.  
        "Do you understand your objective?" Èmile demanded. They had met on the eastern coasts of Rousette in the port city of Tyyppi, which was deserted at the early hour. It was unwonted; usually, he would have preferred a more formal setting, but he felt this was somehow safer. There were three sailors- a woman and two men- in front of him, but he knew there were more. The tall, muscular woman wearing a thick scarf with the initials "I.S." threaded into the side gave her name as Riina Sokolov. The man to her right introduced himself as Jorma Vesa. The man to her left, shorter than the other two, hairy, said his name was Markus Arttu. Riina inhaled deeply, puffing out the smoke from her cigarette in short bursts.  
"Do you think we're stupid?" She finally barked. "'Course we understand! You repeated yourself like you had dementia!"  
Markus laughed good-naturedly, albeit slightly drunkenly. "Least you could do is give us a challenge, eh, Èmile?"  
Jorma was the only one who questioned the hunter. "Why'd you ask _us_? We ain't exactly spies, y'know."  
"Yes, I know. You were cheap," Èmile said.  
"CHEAP?" Riina shouted. "We're doin' all this for you, we're puttin' our-"  
"Shut up!" He bellowed, just as loudly. "Do what you are told, do exactly as I tell you, and you get your money, alright? That is the deal. You will not argue; you will not question me."  
"We ain't slaves," Jorma added. "We c'n walk away whenev'r we w'nt."  
"But you won't. Because you're broke. Because you're jobless. Because no-one wants to hire a posse of drunken buffoons!"  
"I don't know what you're trying to explain to us, but that only made you sound desperate for help," Riina said.  
"It doesn't matter. Do your job. Start at sunrise."  
        Èmile took them to a hotel after Riina told Markus to instruct "her boys" to stay where they were and tell them that they were going to be gone for a while. He paid for the expenses, ensured that they would start at day, and left with Ivan and Felix, who had accompanied him there. "Sir?" Felix spoke up.  
"Yes?"  
"Do you really think it's a good idea to meddle with the Governor?"  
"It's our job to, Felix."    
Felix looked skeptical.  
"Listen, Alfons, our job is to vanquish monsters, correct?"  
"Yes, sir."  
"Do you remember what you saw that day?"  
"Y-Yes, sir."  
"Boy, _telé'l_ may be frightening, but what you saw that day was a _real_  monster."  
"A real monster?"  
" _Telé'l_ are born the way they are. _Those_ creatures are born human. They change and mutilate themselves for power and immortality. They look human, they act human, they will make you believe they are human, and, it is true, they once were. But not anymore. You must not believe them. Because they were once human, they know us. They know our weaknesses. That is the kind of monster you must not trust."  
"Of course, sir."  
        This was the situation in which Èmile found himself after his encounter with Lydia and Elliot.


	17. Roskaväki

        The Governor's carriage had become somewhat of a familiar sight to the Chalinian people, and the fact that it was frequently seen passing the border between the two countries did not go unnoticed. It was also noticed that the carriage had not come to Chalin in months after leaving without the cart it had come in with. But it would come back, eventually, that much was sure. It was really only a matter of when they were ready.  
        After they had left Chalin, they went straight for Maribelle's manor in order to get help for Merlin, Maribelle, and the children. They entered Fluie, no one mentioned it, and then they entered Chlealiva. When they finally got there, the horses were near collapse. The cask of oil in the carriage was empty. Elliot reached out and opened the door. There was a gentle thump, and Lydia pulled the door the rest of the way back, smiling forcefully. "How was the trip, Governor?"  
"Did I hit you?" Elliot stepped out.  
"You did."  
Merlin followed Elliot out, then Claudia and Louis. Lydia carried Maribelle more gently this time.  
"Hm."  
        The Governor looked upon the paved entrance to the manor; it was wide, and a patch of grass and styled trees sat in the middle. To the side, there were bushes of flowers- roses, mostly; it was Chlealiva, after all- and nicely lined rows of fir trees, which Elliot had always found beautiful, especially in the winter. An echo of shrill laughter rang through the plot. It must have been Maribelle's children, or else the Governor's own nephew and niece playing together in the courtyard. They advanced toward the wide, tall doors. Elliot lifted the ring of the bear-shaped door knocker and let it fall. She suddenly became aware of her appearance. Her bloody shoulder and bandage, her ripped coat and cravat, her disheveled hair. She realized how much her mother and sister would fret over it. Elliot smiled. She lifted the ring and let it fall again.  
        There was a shuffling noise, and the door opened. Her mother, Jeanne, stood there. She carried a mournful air; she looked terribly tired. When she saw her daughter standing before her, however, it melted away, and a smile rose upon her face. Jeanne embraced Elliot, and Elliot embraced Jeanne. Her mother pulled back, rested her hands on her shoulders, and looked her over. Her smile only grew. She said, "My beautiful daughter, what did you get yourself into?"  
"I'll tell you later, mother. Could you get the nurses?"  
        "Of course, of course!" Jeanne led them away toward the nurses' quarters with a last word of affection. Most of them were still asleep, but Jeanne hurriedly woke them. They realized the severity of the situation after they had pried themselves and each other from their beds and ordered Lydia to set Maribelle down on the bed immediately. Merlin set himself down on one of the beds. A maid took care of him. There wasn't much they could do, they said, but he would definitely survive, should they somehow evade an infection. Both Elliot and Lydia, whose collarbone had healed during the incident with the hunters, refused care.  
"And who are these children?" Jeanne purred.  
Elliot looked up at Lydia with a questioning look. "You'll have to ask her, mother."  
"Lydia?"  
She smiled. "I rescued them, Madame."   
The Governor and her mother shared the same skeptical expression.  
"Well, I didn't rescue them; they rescued themselves. I left. They wanted to come with me; I let them come."  
"What does that mean?" Elliot asked.  
"Claudia and Louis are-" Lydia turned to her Governor. "Does she know what hunters are?"  
"Of course she does!" She snapped.  
"Of course she does," Lydia repeated. "Claudia and Louis are the children of hunters. They were treated terribly, poor things, half-starved. But, of course, Chalin is poverty-stricken, so it's not so uncommon."  
Jeanne seemed more alright with taking the children because they were hunters.  
"You do remember Louis, don't you, Governor?"  
"I do."  
Leaning toward her, Lydia whispered, "I suggest keeping a close eye on him, then."  
Elliot bristled. "Blackwater, would you please take the children to the kitchen and make them something to eat?"  
She bowed. "Of course, Governor."  
And the three of them left.  
A warm smile grew on her face when they left. "Mother?"  
"Yes, _kultaseni_?"  
"Are you alright?"  
Jeanne sighed deeply and sat on one of the nurse's beds. She was silent for a moment.  
" _Mater_?"  
"I'm doing alright, _tyttäreni._ But, of course, there's your father." Jeanne fell silent again. She looked confused.  
Elliot sat beside her and gently held her hand.  
"Francis never met Abraham and Maribelle," she whispered.  
He hadn't, but why did that matter? "No, why?"  
"He did."  
"Mother, you're not making any sense." Her voice was strained, concerned.  
"When your sister and I went to the asylum, they told us that the last person to visit him was not us, but a woman named Maribelle."  
"That's- strange." Why would Maribelle visit Francis?  
"Ruth is angrier than I've ever seen her." Jeanne laughed weakly. "I don't know why."  
        Elliot straightened her back and cleared her throat. She tightened her hold on her mother's hand. Lydia told her to ask her mother what Francis had done to her. This might not be the right time, but the Governor grimly admitted to herself that she did not know for how long her mother would stay alive. Gently, tenderly, Elliot rested her head on her mother's shoulder. Jeanne kissed her forehead.  
" _Mater_?"  
"Yes, _rakkaani_?"  
"What did father do to her?"  
"To Lydia, _aarteeni_?"  
" _Juu."_  
Jeanne looked down and squeezed Elliot's hand. She brought it to her lips and lightly kissed her knuckles. "What did she say?"  
"She told me to ask you."  
"Of course." Her mother smiled. "I remember when I first met her. She was so angry. She was angry at everything. It's like she hated the world. She was a mystery to me; she still is. I don't know what she was like before Francis brought her here, but I knew she had to have lost something. He treated her like she was-" A peculiar expression flashed on her mother's face; the corners of her mouth twitched. "-like she was _roskaväki._ I was a fool not to do anything about it."  
        Elliot could see Merlin in her peripheral vision. He was focused; he was listening. She could tell the nurses and maids could hear, but they were talking loudly, obviously trying not to accidentally eavesdrop. The Governor was grateful for that.  
"But what did he do?"  
"Elliot, you're still _vauvani._ I don't-"  
"Tell me, mother. Does Ruth know, too?"  
"She does; she was old enough. It stopped when you started to grow up, but she never forgave him for it."  
Frustration welled up in Elliot. She sat up and looked at her mother. "And what is 'it'? What did he do?"  
Jeanne did not meet her intense gaze. Her voice dropped to a whisper, so Elliot had to lean in to hear her clearly. "He beat her, he yelled at her, he ignored her, he locked her in dark rooms for days at a time. He starved her."  
"My father?"  
"Your father."  
"Why?" was all Elliot could find to ask.  
"He thought that he could make her a monster."  
"Wasn't she already a monster?"  
"She was a monster physically, but she was still human."  
Jeanne looked up at her daughter.  
"I'm surprised she doesn't hate you."  
Elliot smiled. "She calls me ' _liere'_."  
"Does she? That's what your sister used to call you before you were old enough to know what being sisters meant." She laughed decrepitly.  
        The door to the infirmary opened. It was Ruth, followed by a small herd of seven children. She recognized Matthew and Tara, her nephew and niece. The rest of them must have been Maribelle's five children. " _Mater_!" One of the children shouted; he looked to be the oldest, by his height. He ran over to his mother's bedside and gripped her hand. Maribelle had been awake the entire time, but she was hazy, not entirely all there. She looked to her side, up at his teary, pale face, and she mumbled, "Mathéo."  
"Mathéo?" The boy repeated. "Who is Mathéo?"  
Maribelle grew angry. " _Moussa as Mathéo_?"  
The boy's face lit up in a sudden understanding. He didn't notice his siblings crowd around him. "Mathéo! She is asking for father!"  
"You mean Abraham?" Elliot asked. She stood up from the bed.  
"Yes, father," the boy answered. "His middle name is 'Mathéo'. That is what our mother calls him very often." The boy's English was iffy, but he was young. His understanding expression was replaced with sadness. He muttered, "But he is still missing, no? You have not found him?"  
"We haven't, but we are still looking," she answered shamefully. She knew they were still nowhere close to finding him.  
"No, you are not," the boy snapped back, but it was quiet and solemn, not angry or moody.  
Maribelle's eyelids fluttered. She did not speak.  
The Governor, too, did not speak.  
The boy closed his eyes; another tear rolled down his rosy cheek. He carefully said, "He is dead, is he not?"  
"No, he isn't," Elliot projected. "He's still alive. He's just not here."  
"I am not stupid," was all the boy said. He turned to his mother and spoke no more.  
        Ruth rushed forward and embraced her. Matthew and Tara clung to her legs awkwardly. Elliot hugged her sister. Pain shot from her shoulder through her side when Ruth pressed her body against hers, but she did not pull away or cry out. Her sister eventually backed away, and her children unlatched themselves from her legs. Her eyes were watery. Ruth leaned in and kissed her cheek, and Elliot returned the gesture. She rested her hands on the Governor's shoulders, just as Jeanne had done. She thought fondly of how similar her sister and mother were.  
"Oh, Elliot," she breathed. "I'm so glad you're alright."  
"Of course I'm alright. I'm well-protected."  
"Well-protected is an understatement. Lydia is-"  
"-amazing," Jeanne interrupted.  
Ruth's hands slid from her shoulders, down her arms, and wrapped around Elliot's own hands. "She _is_ amazing."  
"Ruth."  
Her sister's smile faltered when she heard the seriousness of the Governor's voice. "Yes?"  
"Has anything happened here? Anything strange?"  
"No, nothing. Why?"  
Elliot slowly pulled her hands away. "It's nothing."  
"Should I be looking for something? Is something wrong?"  
"No, Ruth. Don't worry about it."  
        Elliot was getting desperate. The boy's conversation made her realize just how much he really needed to be found. The children could not be left father-less, especially at their young age. But then, what if he was dead? Or, what if they never found him? Abraham told them to keep the incident in the mine a secret; he told them not to tell the police. He did not know he would go missing, which left Elliot at a loss. Would he want them to contact the police, if something happened to him? He did not address that situation. She did not know what to do. They had no leads on the whereabouts of Oliver and Victor Woodry. The only thing they really found was that they were actually brothers. Then, the body in the mine still wasn't identified, when Abraham revealed that Victor was alive and that he did not know who it was. Finally, they did not know who left new roses on Delilah's grave with the note that said, "I'm sorry," which Elliot had confirmed wasn't Victor's writing when she compared it to the note he wrote to Delilah. Before the carriage crash, they had been on their way to Fortuê to find the shop where the flowers were sold. They never got there.  
        Her mind continually flashed to that very carriage crash and, strangely, the incident with the deer. The deer? The front half of a deer which they found when the carriage lurched to a stop on their trip to the cemetery. It was such a strange occurrence. The scream, the deer laying in the road, the pristineness of the corpse except for the missing half, the absence of predators that could have committed the act; all was out of place. Perhaps she would ask Lydia about it later. Yes, she would, she decided. But she would do it later. She suddenly grew tired as she sat there on the side of the bed. Her eyelids were heavy, heavier than her limbs. And as she limply fell to her side, unconscious, she heard her poor mother's worried shout of, " _Herranjumala!"_


	18. Banshee

       The book. As soon as the haze in Elliot's mind cleared, she remembered the book. _The book._ How could she have forgotten the book? The books that they had found in the ravaged theatre. The book that Victor had put his note to Delilah in. The books that Merlin had taken with them in his bag. The other book in which Victor had written a note to himself, a note that he was meeting his brother in the L'arbre Vivant, where Isaac told them that Oliver was his brother. A book that would, potentially, inform her of what Lydia was, what the _telé'l_ were, what _lourierre_ was. But did Merlin still have his bag? Did he lose it? She couldn't remember. Maybe it was in the carriage, maybe he had left it there.  
        As the Governor became more aware of her surroundings, she became conscious of a tingling sensation in her legs and hands. Then, she felt the coolness of something against her forehead and water slowly rolling down the side of her nose. The muscles in her jaw and neck felt unusually tight. The first thing she could move was her tongue. She felt her teeth and the roof of her mouth steadily, quietly, eyes closed. Her mouth was sickeningly dry. Elliot cracked open her eyes; the room was dark, except for three candles. She felt pressure on her hand, but she did not look over. She closed her eyes again. Something was quickly pressed against her lips; something porcelain- a cup.  
"It's water," said a voice. It came from the same side as the pressure on her hand, which had now lifted. It was Lydia.  
        Elliot barely opened her mouth, just enough to allow Lydia to pour water into it. She swallowed softly and relaxed. She did not know if she could speak, so she did not try. Instead, after a moment of prolonged silence and a few more mouthfuls of water, Lydia spoke for her.  
"You're wondering what happened, no, Governor? Even if I couldn't tell, it's only natural."  
Elliot did not move or speak.  
"It was strange; they said they had never seen something quite so _dramatic._ They didn't know what happened, and they didn't know what to do. But they did something right, I suppose. It passed eventually. I should tell Maribelle to get better nurses, shouldn't I? Poor things were helpless."  
She did not want to open her eyes.  
        Lydia suddenly went quiet. She gave the Governor more water. Lydia was thinking. She was thinking whether or not to tell Elliot of the bond they share. She felt all of it; it was something unlike anything she had ever experienced. It wasn't terrible; it didn't hurt. In fact, she couldn't feel anything. It was strange, confusing. It was like she was out of her body. She was with Claudia and Louis at the time, and, when they saw her just staring, sitting, that's when they knew something was wrong. Lydia herself didn't realize that meant it had happened to the Governor until after it passed.

        They would be able to use the bond to their advantage, somehow; they would be able to communicate. At least, Lydia would be able to tell what she was thinking. Elliot wouldn't be able to do much with it, but, if she knew, think of what they could do! What they could accomplish! The Governor could command her from afar; Lydia would be able to obey from afar. But, alas, Lydia did not tell Elliot. She sat there, with her hand on the Governor's, with a pristine, porcelain cup in her hands, looking down at the ruffled sheets draped over the bed, wondering when the woman lying in front of her would speak. But she did not speak, not for many minutes, not for many hours after.  
        Lydia set the cup down on the bedside table covered with folded spare blankets and pages inscribed with unintelligible words, and she bent down, shuffled around in Merlin's bag, and took out two books- the very books Elliot had been thinking about. See? The bond was useful, yet it remained a secret. She opened the folklore book and flipped through the pages, which gave a satisfying crunch whenever one was turned. Lydia looked at Elliot.  
"I don't know if you surely can hear me, but I'm fairly certain you can. The books you've been wanting to see? I have them, right here, beside you. I suppose you can't _really_ see them, so I suppose I'll have to read them to you, won't I?"  
There was a silence as Lydia stared intently at Elliot, as if expecting a response.  
She nodded as if she had given one.  
"Well, it's not another note, fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you think of it. I just thought you'd appreciate a little story or two, no? I reckon we have the time."  
        And, so, Lydia quoted a fairytale aloud to Elliot, adding, in an undertone, that it was personally one of her favorites. She forewarned Elliot that, since these stories were quite old, they were in an early form of Friman and that some were even written in Finnish. She could not read Finnish, so, she told Elliot, she would have to read that herself when she decided to wake up. Lydia's Friman wasn't the best, which she apologized for, so she chose to recite it in English, instead. The tale goes as follows:  
        " _There was once a girl, who lived deep in the fatal-_ Lydia audibly questioned the word choice here _\- swamps of the city of Ei-Vihaa, where she had been banished years prior on account of witchcraft. Her name was Delwyn, but the people called her Jolie. The girl was undeniably beautiful, but she was also undeniably vain and undeniably lonely. Every day and every night she wept, and every day and night she wept louder than the previous one. She begged and prayed for someone to save her from her isolation, but the people only heard terrible shrieks and wails from their comfortable town, and her screeches were a constant reminder that they were justified in her abandonment._  
         _But, one day, when a man grew tired of her constant complaining and weeping and screeching, he took his strongest and fastest and biggest horse and ventured out into the swamps to slay the girl, where he met traps that were meant to ensnare adventurers so Jolie would no longer be lonesome. On the first night, he encountered an injured dove, inconspicuous, clearly not a trap? It was crushed under his steed's hooves. One the second night, he encountered an injured doe, inconspicuous, surely not a trap? The man killed it for meat and ate it. On the third night, he encountered an injured puuma, inconspicuous, obviously not a trap? The man killed it for fur and wore its skin._  
         _In the morning, he had arrived at Delwyn's hut. The woman exited and greeted him. She knew what he was here for and addressed him thus, 'Man, you have killed three of my beasts. You have killed three of my friends. You have killed three times over. Man, in a way you have already killed me three times over. Even so, I will not kill you. All I require is three of your beasts. I require three of your friends. I require vengeance.'_  
_The man replied, 'But I have not three beasts. I have not three friends. I have nothing to offer you in return.'_  
 _The woman spoke again, 'All that is good. All that is fine. What I require, then, man, is your death three times over.'_  
 _The man was perplexed. 'My death three times over? One can only die once, wench.'_  
 _She replied, 'Alas, one can die more than once. So you shall see.'_  
         _And so the girl slaughtered his horse. And so the girl burned all his food so that he should have nothing to eat. And so the girl took all his clothes so that he should have nothing to wear. And then the girl chased him into the swamp, where he should surely perish. She had taken his horse, something valuable to him, and also had she taken his clothes and food, something necessarily for him, and said to herself, 'Let us see if he shall not die thrice'._  
 _And the man did, indeed, die three times over. For the man, in the night, developed a malady which stiffened him and slowed him, making him mostly useless. Thus the first death has occurred, the death of usefulness. Secondly, the man's legs were broken when he fell down a ravine covered in snow, and he gave up trying to continue. Thus the second death had occurred, the death of hope. And, like this, the man starved. Thus the last death had occurred, the death of the physical being._  
 _The woman continued weeping, and by this the people knew the man had failed in his journey. The woman continued to weep, but it was a sorrowful weep, for she mourned her animal companions that the man had killed for himself. And the screaming was so terrible that she was no longer known by the people of the town as 'Jolie' but as 'Banshee'. And because her screaming was for death; thus it was forever associated with death."_  
        By the time Lydia had finished, the three candles had been diminished to nothing but melted stumps with a lick of flame atop. She looked over at her Governor. She knew she had fallen asleep halfway through the story, but she had continued, anyway. Lydia knew she would remember it in the morning.  
        Lydia picked up the books from the bed, leaned over, and kissed the Governor's forehead. She whispered, "I do hope you will remember this story. I chose it for a reason." And with that, she left.


	19. Protection

       To say that Claudia and Louis were amazed at the state of Abraham's manor was an understatement. They had never seen anything like it. All their life, neither of them had left Chalin, nor have they ever, up until they met Lydia, seen anyone from Rousette, except for soldiers and police officers. Of the education they had received, Louis had gotten most of it, despite Claudia being older. Louis could write, but he could not read; thus, his skill was virtually useless. Claudia could do neither, but she had natural wit in her favor. It didn't take long for the pair to look upon Maribelle's five children with barefaced envy. The children's clothes were regalia compared to the rags Claudia and Louis wore. Maribelle's children, too, noticed this, but they had been raised properly. Like all children, it is with surprising ease that they introduced themselves.  
        The eldest, the one who had spoken with Elliot, was the first to approach them as the younger four watched. Claudia was the one to speak; Louis stalked behind her. The debonair boy, with confidence and charm and a dashing head of curly blond hair, told Claudia that his name was Raphael. Raphael personally introduced the others as if they couldn't speak for themselves, but Claudia supposed this was because he was the oldest and was expected to be powerful. Another boy, who was so young that he couldn't yet walk, was Jérémie. The girl holding him was Heidi. The other two were twin boys, Niklas and Jossé. Raphael stood out somewhat. He was taller than the rest, and he was blond. The rest of them had a palette of light and dark brown hair, were considerably shorter, and were perfect imitations of their parents.  
        Claudia meekly introduced herself, then Louis. Raphael asked her where they were from, a question she had dreaded; after all, they were Rousettean, but Chalinians were more welcome in Rousette than Rousetteans were in Chalin. So she told them, told them that they were from Chalin. They were all silent for a few seconds, as if thinking over how they should react, but Heidi eventually sat Jérémie down on one of the plush living room chairs and held her hand out toward Claudia. She asked, with a small, tame smile, if Claudia would not like to join her in her room. And so she was whisked away, while Louis was left alone with the boys.  
        These events took place the morning after Lydia had told Elliot the story of the Banshee, and Elliot was now awake, as was Maribelle, who was standing with the aid of a few nurses. Elliot pulled the sheets from around herself and gently twisted her legs to the side of the bed. She felt herself shaking slightly; she licked her dry lips nervously. The Governor pushed herself off the bed all too quickly; she felt her knees cave in under the pressure, and she collapsed to the ground with a small cry of surprise. Elliot impulsively groaned when she hit the floor. Merlin was immediately up and at her side, wrapping his arm around one of her own and slowly tugging her upward.  
"Bu- Wait-" Elliot rasped. She pushed him weakly away with her fist.  
"Are you, are you a-alright?" She heard him choke out.  
        The Governor was breathing heavily; her back ached as if the weight of a statue laid upon it as she stood there, hunched over and trembling. She felt herself being pushed against the bed, and, so, she fell back and relaxed. Elliot could feel the heaviness of her body. She could feel her arms weighing down her collarbones; she could feel her ankles dangling off the bed; she could feel her fingers and hands limp at her sides. Her nostrils stung as she breathed in and out; her ribs seemed to creak as her lungs filled her chest. She could feel her organs throbbing- or, maybe, was that her heartbeat? Either way, the movement was painful.  
        From the side, she heard the door open. Footsteps slowly came toward her, and- it was no surprise to her- the visitor was Lydia. She had changed out of her normal attire and was wearing one of Ruth's dresses. Her hair was wet; she was no longer bloody, no longer dirty. Elliot flinched when she felt droplets of water cascade onto her face, and, when she opened her eyes again, she saw Lydia staring down at her.  
"My governor," she said with forged concern, "are you alright?"  
Elliot gazed at Lydia's face with a somewhat faraway expression, which must have _really_ concerned Lydia, because her small smile immediately dropped, and she repeated with more urgency, "Governor? Are you alright?"  
She did not break eye contact with the woman who loomed over her when she whispered, " _Si as vure arbé e fen min alors."_  
Neither did Lydia break contact, and her response was, "I know it is, Governor." There was something akin to shame in her voice, and she finished after a moment of hesitation with, "I'm sorry."  
        Elliot pushed herself into a sitting position and was rewarded with a sudden rush of blood away from her head, only spurring on her giddiness. She looked at Lydia sternly, despite the cloudiness of her vision and the swaying feeling of her body. Elliot looked intently into her dark eyes, which stared just as intensely back at her. She took in Lydia's face- the roundness of her eyes, the paleness of her cheeks, the thinness of her nose, the soft upward curl of the sides of her mouth. Elliot frowned. To hear Lydia apologize to her so sincerely felt like a disgrace to her character, a disgrace to her pride. To hear Lydia apologize was both maddening and heartbreaking, for a creature like her was not below apologies, but above.  
"For what?" She demands.  
Lydia's eyes flicker up to the Governor's face. "What?"  
"What are you sorry for?"  
This exclamation only angered Lydia. Her eyes no longer dulled in shame or flashed in surprise. They flared in anger. "What do you mean?"  
"Why are you apologizing?"  
"Why am I apologizing?" Lydia repeated.  
"Yes, why?" Elliot affirmed. "When one apologizes, it is because they have done something. Why are you apologizing? What have you done?"   
        And Lydia found this to be true. Her emotions were changing rapidly; it was something they had never done before, and it was a sensation she found perplexing and foreign. Her face grew hot. Her eyes watered. Lydia had done something, and it was not until now that she realized just how much she regretted it, how much she was ashamed of it. What had she done? She had endangered Elliot's life. How had she endangered the Governor's life? She had set the timer when she created the bond between them. In creating this bond- this link between both their bodies and their minds- she had taken away from Elliot's body and mind. In minute amounts, day by day, year by year, the bond chipped away at the Governor.  
        You see, the bond, in the early days, was not first intended to protect Elliot, and, therefore, it did not act in a way that would protect her in the long run. The link was created to kill Elliot as revenge on her father, for this was Lydia's ultimate goal. The keyword- which is very important- being "was". She no longer wanted to kill her Governor, and, indeed, she decided that she alternatively wanted to protect her, to love her; this was now her goal. But no matter how badly and how deeply and how fervently she wished in every waking moment she experienced that she could somehow reverse it, even Lydia herself could not. She did not know how, and she hated herself for her ignorance.  
        Why did she hate herself so fiercely? Because Lydia loved, adored, Elliot.  
        Elliot was astounded, wordless, still. Lydia had fallen on her knees and bowed her head upon the bed beside the Governor. Her fists were balled in her lap. She shook silently and occasionally took a sharp breath inward. Elliot looked down at her. Merlin stepped away. The room was silent, for the nurses had taken Maribelle from the room to see her children. She looked up at Merlin and told him to leave, and he did so. And now Lydia and Elliot were left alone in the infirmary.  
"Stand up." The harshness in Elliot's voice made Lydia cringe.  
She obeyed and stood. She unabashedly displayed her red, teary face. Lydia took a long breath in.   
The Governor pointed to the bed across from her own. "Sit."  
Lydia sat.  
"What did you do?" She repeated again, softly.   
Lydia did her best to compose herself, and, when she spoke, it was with only shame that she said, "I did that to you."  
"Did what to me?"  
"Yesterday afternoon, Governor." She had always hated calling Elliot by her proper title; it reminded her far too much of Francis. "What happened was of my doing."  
"Your doing?" This was something Elliot hadn't expected, and it hurt to hear Lydia say it. "Why would you, why would you do that?"  
"I didn't mean to," she whispered. Her voice was hoarse as if she hadn't spoken in days.  
This made Elliot angry. "Didn't mean to? By God, how does someone _accidentally_ do that? And, by God, how does someone do it at all?"  
"I wanted to protect you."  
"You call that protection?" This was the first time Elliot had ever been quite so angry at Lydia. However, the anger was not all Elliot's; whether or not she knew it, the anger stemmed from Lydia's own anger with herself.  
Lydia did not speak.  
"Tell me!" Elliot bellowed. "What did you DO?"  
        So, Lydia told her. She told her everything. She told her how she had forced their bond, what the bond was, and how it affected both of them. She told them that she had done it to kill Elliot, at first, before she realized she could use it to protect her. She told her that she had done it as a means of revenge toward Francis. She told her that she wished she could take it back, and that she wished she had never done it. She told her that she did not know how to reverse it. She told her that she hated herself more than she had ever hated anyone for doing it.  
        And, finally, when Lydia's tears had dried, and she had enough strength physically and mentally to look Elliot in the eyes, she said, " _Jou ain vou."_  
        And, in response to this heartfelt confession, to the most truthful and most sincere thing the woman in front of her had ever said in, perhaps, her entire life, to the phrase of adoration and devotion that compared to no other and shadowed all others in the weight of its meaning, the Governor looked her, too, in the eye, and said,  
" _Laavédan enau."_


	20. The Candle-Maker

       Lydia left the manor entirely when Elliot had told her to leave. She was seething and hating, but she did not hate Elliot nor did she seethe at the thought of her. She hated herself and seethed at the thought of what she'd done. She could not and would not hate the Governor, for what she felt early in their relationship did not stem from Elliot herself but from her father, who had made her harm Elliot; Lydia only hated him more for it, and this was why she had killed him. All of the things which she had done flooded her mind like a river after a storm, like the tears in her eyes. Lydia left the manor, weeping silently as she walked, covering her face with her hands as if the action of sobbing itself caused her pain.  
        Lydia did not know how far she walked. It might have only been minutes after she left when she stopped. A smell had halted her in her purposeless wandering. She lowered her moist hands from her red eyes and peeked out from above them. She held her breath, and wonder filled her as a breeze fills a room when a window is opened. Lydia found herself in a crowded street. The scent which had distracted her from her despair was melted wax, for she stood in front of a candle-maker's shop. She recognized this shop- this shop which she had seen so long ago; this was why wonder so took hold of her. It could not have been real. Could it be? She could have sworn the building had been torn down. Lydia wiped her face on her apron dress, fixed the cloth holding her hair up, straightened her back, and entered.  
        The room carried within it amalgamations of different scents- too many for her to recognize any one. The room was crowded, not by people, but by shelves crammed with a variety of candles of unique color, shape, size, width, scent, even stages of disrepair, for many were broken or crushed. Many were lit and oozing wax down the spindles of tables and cabinets, where it dried and encrusted the wood with a diverse palette of color. On another side of the room, new candles hung from a string, awaiting sale or placement upon one of the overpopulated slats of splintered wood. An elderly man- the candle-maker- sat on a rickety stood in front of a large cauldron, which was suspended above a fire by a chain on either side connecting to the walls of the cobblestone fireplace. He was melting wax, no doubt.  
Without turning toward the visitor, the man said in an airy, faraway voice, "Welcome, welcome, please- have a look around. My name is Monsieur Baptiste, should you very well need anything."  
Lydia stood in awe of the man. She looked about and whispered, "Torvald Baptiste?"  
The man grunted lightly and turned; his eyebrows were raised as if he had been the one asking. Torvald's mouth dropped open. " _Nitt Luoja!"_ The man grabbed his cane sitting behind him on the ground and shuffled up to her. He adjusted the glasses sitting precariously on the tip of his nose. "My dear Lydia, is that you?"  
"I was wondering the same thing about yourself," she said. "I could hardly believe this was real when I saw your shop. But why are you here again? Why did you not stay in Chalin? In the forest? Surely the forest is much safer than the city, swarming with hunters."  
"I, too, could ask the same thing about yourself, Lydia. Why are you here, in Rousette? Why are you in the city? The last time I saw you, you had hidden away, quite like myself." He shook his head. "You have found someone else?"  
"Of sorts."  
"You should not have done what you did with that man, then." Torvald eyed her. "I knew it would not last. But you are well, no? I suppose that is all that matters."  
"I came to ask you something, Monsieur Baptiste."  
"Please, sit." Torvald pointed his cane at the stool. Lydia did as she was told. "What is it? Wait, wait- don't tell me-" He closed his eyes and took a deep breath inward. Torvald looked at her again, but it was with admonition. "You are looking to close off a bond- with who?- with that governor, that governor- who?- El-something, El-something- Can it not be Elliot?"  
"It is. Governor Phorus."  
"By God, what business did you have bonding with her?"  
"It was revenge, at first, Monsieur Baptiste. Revenge for-"  
"-for her father. Yes, yes, I know all about it, dear Lydia."  
"It is killing her."  
"So I would have guessed."  
"I do not want her to die."  
"So I would have guessed," he repeated.  
"What shall I do about it?"  
"You've become stronger since you first asked me to turn you into a monster, Lydia. Much stronger. Where did you learn to do that? I certainly didn't teach you."  
She felt her skin grow warm beside the boiling wax, and she looked at him sternly. "That doesn't answer my question. What is to be done about it?"  
"Well," Torvald started; he sat with a grunt on a ripped armchair next to the fire. "There is one way."  
" _And?"  
"_I don't think you would like it very much, dear."  
"Get on with it already, Baptiste."  
"Yes, yes, well- It is quite cliché, you know- like what you hear in fairytales and the like, but, well, I suppose the stories have to get them from somewhere- one holder of the bond must die," he finished frankly.  
"One must die?"  
"Yes, one must die. Since you do not want Elliot to die, it cannot be her, but, since you cannot kill yourself, it cannot be you."  
"But it must be me," she breathed.  
"How you would go about doing that is up to you, my dear Lydia, but you will find away- I'm sure."   
        Lydia slumped forward and buried her face in her hands in frustration. "Aren't you supposed-" But she stopped. The smell of wax had vanished. The rough wood was replaced by the feeling of itchy grass. She removed her hands from her eyes, and no longer was the candle shop there, no longer did she find herself in a busy street. No longer was she with Torvald, the _tudemé._ Instead, she was just as alone as she had left. She was not sitting on a stool, but a rock. She was not sitting next to a cauldron of boiling wax, but a well. Lydia was no longer sitting across from Torvald, but a twisted, old, gnarled scots pine. She looked up at its leafy, faraway branches and did not wonder how she got there, but why Torvald had decided to give her such a vivid hallucination instead of showing himself directly to her.  
        Lydia sat on her rock, next to her well, across from her pine, and thought. She thought about how she would fix the bond, how she would have to die in order to liberate Elliot from it. She had never thought of death until that moment, and she thought of it eagerly, willingly. Her death would bring life, but what Torvald had said was true. She could not kill herself, for she could die only two ways- decapitation or burning. She could not decapitate herself, and she was far too much of a coward to set herself aflame. Someone else would have to do it for her, and, perhaps, she could convince someone to do it. But what Lydia thought of most, sitting there, was how much of a fool she was for running off like this and how much she needed to get back to her Governor and how much, really, the Governor needed her.


	21. I Am No Man

        What happened to Abraham? Where had he gone, where had he stayed, after the crash in the forest? Had he been taken by the _telé_? Had he died in the crash, and they never found his body? If he was alive, where was he, currently, and how had he taken care of himself?  
        The first step to revealing these months- for months, in fact, it had been- in Abraham's life was to say that he is still alive. He had never left the Fluiean forest, and, perhaps, maybe, Elliot's carriage had even passed him once. They had no way of knowing. Surely, if he had never left the forest, that meant someone had taken care of him. Someone _had_ taken care of him. And, instead of monotonously answering the questions, the rest will be shown, not dictated, and it will start the moment Abraham was found.  
        Abraham had been dragged far- how far, he could not tell, for the _telé_ had knocked him near unconscious. He was not bleeding, and hardly was he injured at all. However, Abraham had struck his head upon one of the wheels when the _telé_ rammed into the carriage and flung it to the side. One might notice: Abraham was being dragged by a _telé,_ but Maribelle had chased one off from Elliot at the same moment. That is because there were two. Who were they? We will see. Now, since Abraham was largely incapacitated, it is a miracle that he escaped from the _telé._ How, in that state, had he escaped? With the help of a man, not quite a hermit, somewhat of a recluse, who just so happened to be placidly picking mushrooms at the time of the crash.  
        One might say: how, by God, would such a passive creature, such a cowardly man, hidden away in the forest from society, fight off such a fearful monster as a _telé_? Someone might counter with the idea that he was not a passive creature, not a cowardly man, and he was not. He was not a man at all. But, really, whether or not he was human is up to the observer, for, if he looks like a human, if he acts like one, if he feels like one, if he expresses himself like one, if he loves like one, who is to say he is not one?  
        The man was not human, not physically, that was sure. He was a monster unlike anyone Abraham had ever seen, unlike the _telé,_ which was dwarfed by the creature, and the _telé_ looked like a mere dog in contrast. It was looming, fearsome, transfixing. The points of its antlers shone in the moonlight, and they stretched up toward the crowns of the trees; the tendrils of bone were almost indistinguishable from the branches of the pines, except for their threatening sharpness. It was horrible, but it was beautiful. It seemed to radiate peace, and it did not let out a growl or a screech or a snarl; it was silent. Its head was held high; its hooves were planted to the forest floor; its human-like hands grabbed a tree on either side of it; its wonderful antlers barred the sky itself, and it embodied a wall, a barricade.  
        The _telé_ was still before it; it dropped Abraham. It growled- a terrible, deep, guttural noise. The creature bowed its head and bared its boney, vine-like cirri. It shook its great head, and the wind itself seemed to tremble and howl. The _telé_ reached forward and snapped its jaws, but from there Abraham lost track. He remembered a certain smell waking him up. The smell of melting wax.  
        One will remember Torvald being asked what he was doing in Rousette. This is what he was doing in Rousette. He had taken Abraham there and had cared for him. Why had he taken Abraham to Rousette and not let him go? Because Torvald needed to speak with him- call it something of a lecture. Abraham was hunter; Torvald was a monster.  
        Torvald did not explain to Abraham who he was, at first, even if the man relentlessly yearned to know more than just his name. No, in fact, the first thing Torvald told Abraham was what had happened and what he should do about it.  
"You're name is Monsieur Volleh, no?" Torvald slid a cup to Abraham from across the table and set a pot of coffee near it.  
Abraham frowned and gave him a peculiar look. "How did you know that?"  
"Is it such a surprise that I know about you, Abraham? You are a noble, a hunter, the owner of a great many mines, which supply to our country a majority of its silver."  
"Hunter?"  
"You _are_ a hunter, right?"  
"Yes, yes- how did you know?"  
Torvald closed his eyes and gripped his cane harder as if he were in pain. "That is quite a bit more challenging to answer, Abraham."  
"And what is the answer?" He asked quietly.  
"It is confusing- troubling, perhaps."  
"What is it?"  
"A story."  
"Tell me."  
"I am no man."  
This silenced Abraham somewhat. Yes, he knew this already, but he did not know how to respond to such a harrowing statement.  
"Men you think are men may not be so, Abraham. It is frighteningly easy to imitate humans."  
"Still-" He fidgeted with his ring. "-I know you are not a man, but, but- what does that matter to me? You still have not answered."  
"But I have," Torvald assured. "I told you that I am no man, and that is the answer."  
Abraham looked down at the empty cup. "You know because you are not a man?"  
Torvald smiled amiably. "Good, good- yes- that is right."  
Abraham could not help but feel as if Torvald was slighting humanity as a whole, but he supposed that he was right, in a way.  
"Who are you?"  
"My name is Torvald Baptiste, Abraham."  
"I know your name; you have already told me."  
"Then why did you ask?"  
"I did not mean your name."  
"Then surely you meant who I am, in the literal sense, in the character sense, in the natural sense, or else, perhaps who I am to someone else?" Torvald paused. "Or, maybe, you mean the meaning of my name; perhaps my namesake? Perchance even my parents- no, no- too much of a stretch- why should you care about them? What did you mean, Abraham?"  
Abraham found the man unbearably overwhelming.  
"You stay silent, Abraham. No matter. Who am I? An old, crazy hermit who thinks he is far more important than he really is- that is who I am."  
"You are more than that," Abraham objected.  
"Am I? That would be a thrill, certainly."  
The noble chose to change the subject. "Where am I?"  
"In my candle shop. I'm quite fond of it."  
"Where is this candle shop?"  
"In Rousette. In Fortuê, to be exact."  
Abraham leapt from his seat and upturned the pot of coffee in his action. "Fortuê! We are in Fortuê! By God, where is Elliot? We are here!"  
Torvald picked up the pot, clearly not as enthused as his company. "Not quite, not quite- please, sit down, dear friend."  
But Abraham did not sit. "I have to leave! I have to find Elliot!"  
"I'm afraid she is gone."  
"Gone!" Abraham gave a start. "Gone? Gone? You are not saying she is dead, surely?"  
"No, no, not dead. Sit," he repeated. Torvald looked earnestly at Abraham until he sat.  
"Then what is it?"  
Torvald coughed. "Every minute we speak, a day passes."  
Abraham was dumbfounded, and he collapsed into the chair. " _Bÿva Luoja!"_  
"And, if I'm not mistaken, we've been speaking for approximately- oh, maybe- thirty-five minutes."  
The nobleman seemed at a complete loss for words.  
"I would guess, now that you know this, you will want to leave immediately, but there are still so many things I want to tell you, dear Abraham- there is so much more you need to know." Torvald's voice was wistful.  
"Want to tell me! Need to know!" Abraham exclaimed. "At this rate, I'll be spending the rest of my life in here!"  
"Is that not worth knowledge, Abraham?" Calmly said Torvald.  
"Worth it? Don't force your philosophy on me, old man! Oh dear, oh my- thirty-five days, thirty-five days- how long is that?- By God, more than a month! I've been missing for a month?"  
"Almost forty days, now."  
"Forty! I must leave!"  
"Immediately?"  
"Immediately!"  
Torvald looked to the side at the steady stream of coffee dripping off the edge of the table. He did not attempt to clean it. "Very well, Abraham- I suppose that I could tell you sometime else- perhaps, I very well might ask someone else to do it. I don't know, I don't know. Very well," he repeated. "There is the door, if you must leave so soon."  
Abraham swiped his hat from the table. "Yes, good day, Torvald."  
        And, without a look back, Abraham left the candle shop. Thus, he was again immersed in the present time, just as he was during the carriage crash, forty-three days later, on the twenty-fourth of April. And when he turned about, the candle shop was still there, but the windows were dark, there was no smell of wax, and, indeed, the building was dilapidated. Many spots of the building were covered in mold, and the sign that once hung above the door had fallen on the ground. He was in a street- a street teeming with others, and the smell of wax was replaced with the bittersweet smell of roses. Even though it had only been a month and a half, Abraham felt like he had missed everything.  
        Hurriedly, he skimmed the edge of the crowds, moving as fast as he could without colliding with another in the throng. There was an empty carriage waiting in front of a flower shop. The coachman was speaking with a young girl, who held a bouquet in her small, thin arms. Her chestnut hair cascaded in two braids down her back; the ends were tied and held with lace bows. Abraham stopped and stared at them. Then, another child- a boy- left the shop. Abraham watched them from afar as a wave of ecstasy and relief so strong he felt as if he would faint swept through him. The girl was Heidi, and the boy was Raphael- his daughter and his son.  
        And, for the second time in the span of a few minutes, Abraham found himself breathless, at a loss for words, the severity of which was on par- if not greater than- the moment he was told time was literally passing him by. And, too, as if to save the man from shouting across the crowd, as if the girl sensed someone was watching, by chance, on a mere whim, Heidi turned, and the mixed expression of raw astonishment and felicity that blossomed on her face as she took in the sight of her father was, in that moment, something the man considered to be one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen.  
        " _Piä!"_ Heidi shrieked. She dropped the roses on the dusty ground, and, however rash and however unrefined it looked, she ran toward him with her arms outstretched. They embraced. Raphael joined his sister and father; his sister was laughing, but he was more like his father. He was crying, weeping with joy, but they paid no mind and embraced each other all the same.


	22. You Need To Rest

        Adrien's burial was simple and brief. The only one there to remember him was Isaac, and he was buried in the forest near the bar. Isaac had said there was a certain way the _telé'l_ took care of their young, which was just a lie to get the Governor off of his back. Isaac built a makeshift casket- just wood, no nails, no anything else. He tore a black ribbon, which he kept on him a week after. He said what he could remember to say, recited something in a different language that he remembered his mother saying at funerals, but it had been so long that he hardly knew what the words meant. He fashioned a cross out of twigs and weeds and placed it at the head of the grave. And then he went home, tearless but solemn.  
        The last thing Isaac said to Elliot wasn't quite an invitation to interrogate him, but he had insinuated that he was willing to talk. What he had not said, however, was the price he had decided upon. He did not want money; he did not even want revenge for his nephew- not that he would be opposed to it; he wanted compensation. Elliot dragged him into it by appearing at his doorstep; he could have lived life normally with Adrien if she had not. So, he wanted to be compensated. How? Isaac didn't know. What could possibly equate to the death of his only living relative left? What could be given to him to make it better? Nothing, he realized. What _did_ he want? He didn't know. He thought that speaking with Elliot might clear it up for him; he was ready, ready to give to them anything they needed, but he had no way of contacting them. He did not have a bird, nor could he hire someone to bring a letter to Elliot. That is, until, months later, a certain three sailors waltzed through his doors.  
        Isaac could tell they weren't from Chalin; dressed as relatively poorly as they were, they were better decorated than were most of the Chalinian people. And their accents were thicker than even his was- Scandinavian, probably Finnish, or else Swedish. Isaac treated them like normal customers, giving them whatever the drunkards could coherently slur without drooling or vomiting, until he saw the woman's scarf. It was thick, rough, a brownish color, and it was embroidered with the initials  _I.S. I.S._ The last time he saw or heard those initials was back at his home in America. _I.S._ How he hated those letters; the sight of them made him sick, made him restless with anger. _I.S._ were the initials of the man who ordered the slaughter of _telé'l_ in America. His name was Ilari Sokolov, a Finnish hunter, a terrible, ruthless one.  
"Ma'am," Isaac whispered. He stuffed a cloth in a glass and slowly rubbed the inside of it.  
"What do you want?" She mumbled with closed eyes.  
"You know Ilari?"  
Riina squinted. "Eh? So, what?"  
"What is your name?" Isaac asked.  
"Riina," she whispered. Her eyes slipped shut again.  
"Eh, Riina? The hell is wrong with you? Why the hell are you tellin' this fool who you are?" Jorma slurred.  
"What's the hurt of it, Jer-ma? Ain't no one know why we're here, 'cept Émile."  
"Émile?" Isaac exclaimed.  
"Yeah, Émile, y'know that pretentious, cocky- what is he?- OH," Markus suddenly exclaimed. "Friend, you know that officer-guy's mother from Mongolia? I asked him how in de hell she got over here, but he didn't answer me- no, sir- just stuck that sharp over-sized knife in my direction and told me to shut my trap, because that wasn't none of my business, sir-"  
"MARKUS!" Jorma bellowed drunkenly. "Maybe he was right, eh? Maybe you should shut yer trap just like he said, eh?"  
"Émile? How do you know Émile?" Isaac repeated.  
Riina stuck a callous finger in his face. "Ain't none yer business, is it, eh, whats-yer-name? Nah, don't think so; what do you think, Jer-ma, Markus? Ain't proper to ask a lady questions, eh?"  
"My name is Isaac Koppel."  
Riina froze; a peculiar look came over her face.  
"Is'ic, eh? 'Nd how de hell you know _A-meal_?" She garbled.  
"I've seen him around. He's a flashy son of a bitch. Likes to be noticed. Can't really miss him."  
Riina brought the finger away from his face and grunted in resignation. "Yer damn right he is. He's so goddamn full o' himself."  
"Yeh, he is," Jorma confirmed.  
Markus began, "Yer talkin' 'bout our boss, Jorma! What if 'e saw you-"  
"Markus!" Jorma boomed, again. "Listen to you, jabbering off like a blunderin' buffoon! We're supposed to be keepin' this on the down-low, for Christ's sake!"  
"Eh? Down-low, eh? Little too late for that, don't you think?" Markus shouted back at him.  
"It's not too late, idiot! We've barely even started!" Jorma countered.  
        Isaac was tired- too tired to interrupt. But he was used to drunkards like them. He had seen worse, certainly. Markus had just revealed that they were working for Émile, which was a surprise. Why would Émile even look in the direction of the likes of them? He was too prideful to dirty himself dealing with them. Well, perhaps this was something he could tell Elliot, if he ever got the chance, if she ever visited, which would end up happening sooner than planned. And, by sooner, we mean, at that very moment, the door swung open, and who else to appear than the Governor herself? She entered silently, proudly, accompanied by Lydia and a man Isaac had never seen. Of course, the three sailors did not recognize Elliot, and Elliot and her company did not recognize the sailors. This was the time, Isaac became aware, to address her cautiously.  
Isaac tried to smile. "Madame, here again?"  
Elliot squinted at him and took a seat- three chairs away from the sailors. Her two companions sat on her right, even farther away than she was. "Yes, yes, Isaac."  
The sailors continued their rowdy argument with each other.  
"And where's yer husband? Last time I heard he got in'o a little squabble- that right?"  
"Yes, right, he did. He injured his hand. It had to be amputated." Elliot didn't bother feigning emotion. The sailors- whatever threat Isaac clearly perceived them to be- were so drunk they hadn't even noticed her walk in.  
"Sorry for that," he answered.  
Elliot gave a start. She remembered Aiden. "No, no, don't be. How are you? Have you been doing alright?"  
"I'm fine. What do you want?"  
"I came to talk, Isaac."  
He looked somewhat resigned. "I thought so." Isaac leaned forward and whispered into the space between the three, "The dunces are working for Émile. You wanna talk, we gotta go somewhere else."  
Elliot, too, whispered, "But Émile isn't after _the brothers,_ is he? Why should we need to move?"  
"No, but he is after you- and _you,_ too." Isaac pointed at Lydia.  
"Well," Lydia spoke up, "my name is Mélanie. It is nice to meet you, Isaac." She took a look at Abraham and said, with something like disgust, "This is my husband, Benoit."  
Isaac nodded and leaned back. "Right, nice to meet you both. You sure it's alright, Madame-" He fished for a name; the sailors might already be familiar with the alias Madame Maxime. "-Delphine?"  
Elliot smiled. "I'm sure we'll be fine."  
Abraham made an indecisive noise, as if he had begun a question but suddenly stopped. He hesitated. "Have you seen them since- well, since they went, went missing?"  
The door to the bar opened, but none of them turned to look.  
"Yes, I have seen them since then. But I didn't know they were 'missing'. I just thought they were takin' a visit."  
"You have seen them!" Abraham exclaimed. "Were they alright? Were they hurt? How were they faring?"  
Lydia's expression changed to a serious one.  
Isaac was put off by Abraham's concern for the couple. "They were a'right. They were the same as ever, the same as when Delilah died."  
Lydia nodded quietly. She had an old notepad and a pencil. "When was this?"  
"Before you came here, maybe a week."  
"So soon," she whispered.  
"Did they say where they were planning to go?" Elliot asked.  
Isaac, instead, looked behind them. "Madame Perrault! You're- You're early!"  
And, when Elliot, Lydia, and Abraham turned, they found that, indeed, Valerie had entered.  
She looked haughtily around the room. "Have they dropped off the tea?"  
"Yeah, they did. But you're-"  
"Early. I know. Where did you put it?"  
"In the back."   
And, with Valerie, there was Loretta and Doli. Loretta saw Elliot first, but Riina saw Loretta first.  
"Elliot!" Loretta shouted.  
"Loretta?" Riina whispered, and, turning to the Governor, "Elliot?"  
        "Elliot!" Jorma and Markus exclaimed, but both were too drunk and stumbled over bar stools when they tried to advance. Elliot slipped off her own stool and stepped back to make way for their clambering. Lydia pushed Markus down with the sole of her boot when he got too close. He collapsed to the floor with the shout, "And I bet yer de monster Émile was ravin' 'bout, ain't ye, beast?"  
Jorma joined in with, "And yer here wi' that, that, that _ring leader_ o' yers- what's 'er name- Elliot _Four-us_!"  
Lydia grimaced and poured her drink over Jorma's head. Abraham yanked her arm away and gave her a frown.  
        Valerie went to the back, but Loretta stayed in the lobby. She did not go toward Riina; although, clearly, she recognized her. Instead, Loretta wrinkled her nose and looked down at Riina with a chastising expression. Alternatively, Riina looked at her with a gentle look, completely vulnerable, as sober as she could manage in her state. Riina called her name again, not as a question, but as a statement. Loretta responded with a clear, hard, "Mother." Riina seemed hardened by her tone of voice. She turned back to her drink and ignored her raving cohorts on the ground.  
"I don't wanna see ye," she said. "Get out o' my sight."  
But Loretta didn't move. "It wasn't my fau-"  
"I know it wasn't yer fault!" Riina slammed her fist against the counter, and drops of drool were insinuated in her muddled words, "It don't matter. Follow the bitch ye came in wi'."  
And, with a small sniff but still with a stubborn look, Loretta entered the kitchen where Valerie had gone.  
Lydia stepped over Markus and Jorma and pulled Abraham away from the stools. She smiled, but it was more of a contorted scowl. She looked at Riina. "I think we've unfortunately chosen the wrong time to come, Isaac. Perhaps we should leave and come back another time? Let's pray these imbeciles are too drunk to remember we were here. But, if not, we'll be long gone by the time they can coherently say a single word without spitting everywhere."  
"And we know that Émile hired sailors to, well, to do _something._ It wasn't necessarily fruitless, Blackwater," Elliot added.  
A crash came from behind the door, which was opened by Lydia. Ballast swooped in, disorientated and unbalanced, until he unceremoniously landed on the counter in front of Isaac. Elliot spoke, "We've left Ballast for you, should you ever need to contact us. If it disappears for a while, it will always come back. It has a strange personality, that machine."  
"An irritating one," Lydia added.  
"He's a darling," Abraham corrected. "He's quite like a real bird. If he weren't made of metal, one could hardly tell the difference. Take care of him while he's with you, Isaac."  
Isaac looked down at Ballast. Ballast picked at the wooden counter with his beak, puffing smoke from the protruding pipe on his back.  
"The only thing he needs is gas," Abraham said. "But that is only for flying. He can make do without it if he is not."  
"Right, right," Isaac groused. "Tell the scum to book it, eh?"  
"Gladly," Lydia agreed.   
        Markus and Jorma were extricated from the bar with little more resistance than a few poorly aimed punches and snarls that somewhat resembled words. Riina got up before Lydia could touch her and stumbled outside with her companions, who had collapsed on the side of the street. And, after they had said their goodbyes, they left. Isaac locked the door behind them. The sailors were still in their places when they entered their carriage, but Riina carried a different aura. She was smiling, albeit crookedly, as she watched them go. Meanwhile, inside the carriage, Elliot had a question for Abraham, as much as she trusted him.  
The Governor began with, "Abraham, do you know Émile, in the hunter sense? I know you are one, and, well-"  
"I know him, Governor. But I do not answer to him, and neither does Maribelle. We never have; we operate independently. We are hunters, yes, but we are not part of the ' _hunter association'."_  
"I see. And, if you will not mind me asking, what do you know of him?"  
"Oh, well, now, let's see if I can remember- I know that he used to be in control of hunters in Mongolia. It wasn't quite that long ago, only about five years, if my memory is to be trusted. Émile is somewhat new to Rousette, I suppose. Um- let's see," he paused, entwining his gloved fingers in his beard. "He became the president of the international association some time ago; I believe, while I do not know for sure, that is why he came to our island. Why _our_ island, specifically, I do not know."  
"You don't think, perhaps, it has something to do with _the brothers_?"  
"Them? Why on Earth would Émile care for them?" He gave Elliot a bemused expression.  
She wrung her hands absentmindedly. "I, I believe I might know what became of Victor and Oliver."  
Lydia's smile grew.  
Abraham looked at her earnestly. "Well? Well? What do you think, Governor?"  
"You don't suppose, Abraham, that they are _telé_?"  
Lydia's smile diminished.  
He did not seem to enjoy that proposition. "What made you think this?"  
Elliot sighed mechanically. "Well, being _telé_ would give them motive to flee, especially to Chalin, where police activity is much more lax, specifically hunters, which seem to be focusing on Rousette. In Chalin, Isaac could potentially give them shelter- that, we have yet to really find out- because they are _telé_ , which his nephew happens- _happened-_ to be." Elliot shook her head. "Do you think Isaac is sheltering _telé'l_? It would make sense- somewhat. He has insinuated he despises hunters, and, while I do not know exactly why he came to Rousette, I would guess it is because of the hunters in America, only to finally arrive and find them swarming here. Because his nephew- and possibly other members of his family- were _telé'l_ , wouldn't it be natural he would want to protect them?"  
"Governor, Governor," Lydia crooned. "Are you alright? Are you sure you have recovered since your spill?"  
Abraham closed his eyes and deeply inhaled. "I don't know, Governor, I don't know. I suppose it could be plausible."  
Elliot rubbed her temples. A headache pounded against her skull.  
"Are you alright?" Lydia repeated. "Perhaps we should-"  
"No, yes- I'm fine," Elliot said. She tried to think, but it was as if something was tugging at her thoughts and dragging them to the back of her mind. She could not hold on to even one; each escaped her, and her mind was blank. She stared blankly at the floor of the carriage, trying to focus, but her attempts were idle.  
"Governor?" Lydia said, sternly.  
"Where have you directed the carriage, Blackwater?" The Governor demanded.  
"Back to the manor. I strongly suggest that you rest, Governor."  
"I agree, Elliot. You still have yet to fully recover. You need to rest." Abraham's voice was gentle, which was very characteristic of him, especially lately.  
"Right, yes," Elliot whispered. Her strength suddenly seemed to have seeped out of her.     
        And, so, they made their way back to the Volleh manor. Something was wrong; Lydia knew it; Elliot could feel it, subconsciously. Lydia knew what was wrong, but she did not want to stress her Governor any more than necessary. They had done it flawlessly, as flawlessly as drunkards who could barely stand can carry out an order. Elliot could still not figure out why Riina was smiling.


	23. Saint Elisabêt

         It should be known that Émile was not always this way. He was not always obsessed with _telé'l_. No, in fact, he once never believed they existed. Sure, he was raised in Rousette and around the people, but he was not so superstitious or so afraid as they. His mother was from Mongolia, and she retained his same skepticism. She hardly knew what they were; she certainly was not going to fear them. And she didn't fear them. She didn't have time to fear them. She couldn't fear them when they were tearing into her throat and her stomach and shredding her skin with their claws and fangs even when she was already dead. But Émile did fear them, in that moment, in the time he fled with his father, in the months they traveled to Mongolia, in the years he stayed there, when his father left him, when he remained alone, simmering in his hatred and frustration, he feared them. Émile feared that place, that wretched division, Saint Elisabêt.  
        And, so, that was when he decided he would not fear them. He channeled his restlessness into something useful, something with a purpose, and he thrived because of it. What he once thought would end his life was the only reason he lived. But it took time to get there, and his progress will be shown.  
        Because his home country was landlocked, Émile and his father first had to sail to Russia, where they would be forced to walk and ride through the bitter harshness of the landscape for almost a year. One may be wondering why they would do such a thing. Why would Émile and his father travel back to Mongolia, through the Russian forests, on foot and on horse? Why could they not have stayed in Rousette and found another place to live, someplace other than Saint Elisabêt? Why such a desolate, empty place? That was precisely the point. All too quickly, they realized the dangers of Rousette- the up-and-coming war, the _telé'l._ They left that horrid island, and it was there, in Mongolia, that Émile became what he is today.  
        The events of Émile's abandonment by his father were unfortunate. His father had gone, with one of their horses, to find the nearest nomads who may or may not be passing by; he did not know if anyone were. It was a risk. The horse found its way back. His father never did. Émile was alone. He decided to gather up whatever he was strong enough to lift, pile it on the horses, and leave, for he did not know what else to do with himself. He had to wear layers of his mother's old clothes in order to stand the cold nights and days in winter but was often still too afraid to sleep for fear that he would never wake up again. And, in the summer, he could hardly stand being clothed at all, as the terrible heat made his skin feel as if it were burning. It seldom rained, but he had brought water from the well his father had built. But, still, even a well-full of water might not be enough. He went months without seeing another person.  
        Eventually, Émile ran out.  
        And this is when the change took place, when he made that life-altering choice, the decision to do something. That, too, was when he stumbled upon something- someone. They were two older men, and their names were Tai Stanislav and Lim Fen. And they were hunters. They did not take in Émile so much as Émile attached himself to them. Without very many words, and only stopping for the hunters to ask, "To whom do you belong?" and for Émile to respond, "To the land," one traveler became three. Émile was cared for by the two and was taught how to hunt. And thus completed his transformation into the orderly monstrosity that he is.  
        Tai and Lim never stayed in one place longer than a week, and, wherever they walked, Émile followed, always behind them. They almost never spoke. When they did, nearly every time, it was the two hunters with each other, never to Émile, and Émile never spoke to them. The only thing they knew about each other were their names. They did not need to know anything else. But one day, it changed. It changed when something found them.  
        Émile quickly realized just why Tai and Lim never stayed in one place for too long. They were being watched, followed, by _telé'l_. He only knew when the creatures caught up with them. They struck in the night. Hardly could any of them see the monsters for the darkness. They heard them stalking around their camp before they attacked. Émile knew nothing of how to stop them; Tai and Lim shot through the darkness, calling for Émile to find a solution. He drained one of the horses of their oil into a bucket they used to draw water and threw the fuel onto the ground. He lit one of their lanterns and hurled it toward the pool of petrol. The fire which erupted thereafter showed the creatures' hideous, snarling faces in a light Émile hadn't seen for years.  
        Tai was on the ground, and the boy was sure, although he couldn't see clearly- everything was a blur of heat and blood and deafening gunshots- that one of the creatures had seized his arm and had torn it off. The pool of fire did not create a line between them, but it forced them back; they seemed wary of the fire, even if they could easily move around it, as if it could jump out at them and entangle them in tendrils of flame, like an insect entwined in a spider's web. Lim was shouting something at him, but Émile did not understand his words. Instead, he lurched forward, singeing parts of his clothes and searing some of his skin on the edge of the fire; he grabbed Tai's weapon and fell back, but it was broken- snapped in half as if it were nothing to the _telé'l._  
        Émile grew angry.  
        He flung the useless thing toward the monsters with a frustrated shout; it separated completely upon impact with the dry ground and hit no one. Nevertheless, the _telé'l_ slunk back a few feet, growling, seething- laughing. They were laughing. Lim stopped his onslaught of bullets. Their disgustingly filthy teeth could be seen by the light of the fire, dripping with saliva and blood, seeming to be too large for the gums that stretched back as their lips curled into a smile. Tai was no longer moving. The _telé'l_ were smiling; their shoulders were shaking. They made no noise, but they were laughing. The thick darkness behind them and the intense light of the fire in front of them made their yellow eyes glow.  
        One of them stepped forward and straightened itself into a standing position. It was a terrible sight, so human and so foreign. It appeared wrong to the eyes. Every bit of him begged him to look away, to turn away, but his feet remained still, commanding him not to, to stay, to face it. Its tongue slithered out of its mouth and traced the edge of its bloody gums before it slowly retracted back into its long snout. It did not blink once in the heat of the flames. It leaned forward. The white fur under its boney jaw blackened and shriveled and recoiled from the vehemence of the blaze, but the monster itself did not, as if it could not feel it. Émile yanked the rifle from Lim, who stood still, shocked. Its voice cracked, and only a shrill hiss came forth from its throat. But it morphed into words, words that thundered louder than the unanimous beat of hooves in a herd of horses:  
"WE SHALL BE FRE-"  
        And Émile pulled the trigger unflinchingly. The bullet entered the creature's skull through its left eye, and it exploded in an amalgamation of blood, brain, and bone fragments. Its jaw shattered and hung loosely onto the head by strings of ligament and muscle. The body keeled forward and was enveloped in flames. Émile dove for the bullets Lim had dropped and loaded the rifle. He sprung up and shot at the second; he hit its shoulder. The _telé_  fled.         In the aftermath of the incident, they put out the fire, dispersed oil from one horse into the empty one, gathered up their supplies, and left the two bodies behind. Something broke in Lim, like a dam cracking and spilling lakes worth of water. He told Émile what he was, a hunter, and what they do. He told Émile that he and Tai were traveling to the building where the presidents of different divisions- that is, different nations- of hunters met. This particular place was in the Austrian Empire, where it is believed the hunters as a group began. Lim looked at Émile earnestly, honestly, and asked him if he would like to continue with him.  
        And Émile said yes.


	24. The Swamps of Ei-Vihaa

       What was that, in front of her? In the marshland, standing tall? Was it a woman or a man? She could not tell. She could not see its face; it was shrouded in darkness and shadow. Neither could she perceive if it were real. It carried a heavy presence, but it, itself, was light. It was still, deathly still, but dispersed a feeling of restlessness, like someone who is bound. It was content, as content as is possible for anyone to be, but something was rising in its chest, building and bubbling just underneath the surface, pushing against the paper-thin barrier separating it from eternal freedom with a relentless fervor incomparable to anything she has ever felt. It was pushing, climbing, rising, clawing, biting, scratching. But it was still, silent, waiting. It was perplexing, this figure, this phantom. It was dusky, dark, but it was not evil. Nor was it good.   
        Émile awoke.  
        He had been having this dream ever since he had arrived in Austria and had seen that figure, that phantom in nearly all of his sleeping moments. It had become a familiar sight, somewhat comforting, somewhat foreboding. Often, when his dreams went without this pinnacle of the future, Émile would find himself thinking, wondering about it. He wondered what it meant- nothing good, certainly, he thought- but, most often, what it was. It appeared human, but it did not feel so. So foreign, in fact, it felt comparable to the sigh of those monsters, of those _telé'l_ that plagued his existence. Could they, too, be plaguing his dreams?  
        Émile doubted it. Perhaps it was just a recurring nightmare, albeit a calm one, but nothing more. Still, why now? Why not when he had a reason to fear them, should they, indeed, be the cause? He no longer shook in their presence; he no longer wailed at the their terrible heads. No, now, they feared him, as it should be, and as it shall be. They had no right to appear before him, even in his dreams.  
        Lim was dead, but he had died peacefully. He had died a few months after they had entered Austria. He was sixty-five; old age was his bane, so they said. It astonished Émile, how much of their lives had been spent traveling. He had entered Mongolia at the age of fifteen; now, in the Austrian Empire, as the President of the International Association of Hunters, he was a man of thirty-four. Certainly, too, was age creeping upon him, just as it had done with Lim.  
        Only when something is perfect does it begin to bother you. You may accept it, you may tolerate it; one might even welcome it. But deep down, in the depths of something you don't even recognize as yourself- as something other, rather-, you wish to reject it, to destroy it, to erase it. You are suspicious of its perfection, of its sublime purity. It disgusts you. It disgusts you in the way a mirror disgusts you. That is, you disgust yourself.  
        These were the thoughts tugging on Émile, pushing and pulling him every which way. He did not know how to deal with them or, even, where they were coming from. It was a sudden, unexpected change. He did not like it. It was as if something different from him entirely was thinking for him, taking control of his mind. It confused him. He did not know what was happening. Surely, it had nothing to do with Lim? He did not care for the man, never did. Lim was dead. Why start caring for a corpse? But he knew Lim was not the cause. Call it a distraction, an attempted persuasion to convince himself he knew what was happening, to convince himself he had somewhat of an idea, when, really, he did not.  
        It made Émile angry, for the change in his thoughts, in even the way his body felt, startled him. As such, he sought a solution. It was said that the hunters were after _lourierre,_ but it was never explained why they were after it or how they knew of its existence. They are after it because of Émile's dreams. One night, he had the dream again, but it was different; the figure revealed itself to him, spoke to him. It was an elderly man, ancient, possibly eighty or ninety. He spoke quickly, but his voice projected powerfully. The old man introduced himself to Émile as Torvald Baptiste. Torvald told Émile that something was coming, something stronger than the _telé'l_ , something that made them look like puppies in contrast. He told them what it was called- the _kuollaan_. Torvald gave Émile the name of a _kuollaan_ , which he found he did not remember upon awakening. Before Émile awoke, the man told him that he must find something called _lourierre._ That was all.  
        In the end, Émile did not know what _lourierre_ does or, even, what it was. And, too, were the _telé'l_ looking for it. Why? To outdo their rivals, the _kuollaan_ , to grow stronger. You see, that is how the _kuollaan_ are made into what they are, by the _lourierre._ Alternatively, they can be killed by it. Their boon is also their bane. Of course, Émile did not know this. All he knew was that he needed to find it. So far, he has not. This begs the question: who has found it? This has already been answered. Vincent found it first; Loretta acquired it; Maribelle took it, and she is the one who currently possesses it. What are they planning to do with it? Maribelle, after having conversed with Lydia and Elliot, decided to destroy it. Lydia had said that ridding the world of the _lourierre_ was the only good thing to do with it.  
        Had they destroyed it yet? Is Émile's search unnecessary? No. Maribelle still held on to it. While the three of them knew that it should be purged, they also felt that it would one day come in handy, so long as they kept it out of reach of monsters like the _telé'l_. They knew the _telé'l_ were looking for it, and, if Elliot's suspicion was true, if Victor and Oliver actually were _telé_ and somehow caught wind that they had it, perhaps, it would lead them to the Governor. But Elliot also knew that the hunters were looking for it, as Maribelle told her, and that she wasn't exactly a welcome face to them. She had told the hunters they were not allowed in Fluie, but that order did not carry throughout other provinces, not unless she addressed the Duchess with the problem and asked her to do something about it; of course, she would not. The hunters could still run into them if they traveled elsewhere. They had to be careful.   
        Meanwhile, Riina and the other two sailors managed to drag each other back to the port city of Tyyppi, after a few days, where Émile had met them several times before. Why would they go to Émile, if they had not found anything? They had found something. They had done something, for once. This was why Riina was smiling, when the carriage left the bar. She had acquired the mechanical piece of a bird that allowed it to record messages,-that is, she tore it out- activated it, and placed it between the cushions of the seats. It caught everything they said when they left the bar, and everything after that. They used the system that allowed two birds to transmit the message to each other on a particularly long journey so that another bird may pick up where they left off in order to relay the information to Émile, who possessed an identical piece to the one planted in the carriage. Riina's daughter was not the only one proficient with technology.  
        Therefore, Émile had heard every word they had said in the carriage, but this is not what he wanted. He did not care about whoever Victor and Oliver were. He wanted to know about the _lourierre._ He knew they had it. Axel told him, despite wanting to keep it to himself. Sylvia's death must have persuaded him. He knew that name: Lydia. What's more, he knew that other name: Maribelle Volleh. Another hunter. The Governor and her company had had Maribelle's rifle, and, whatever Elliot had said, he knew that she had been part of her company, as Lydia, who was the Governor's assistant, was seen by Axel carrying the noblewoman out of their house. Presumably, she had left to meet Elliot, where the confrontation in the Fluiean forest occurred. When did Émile obtain this information? Before the confrontation, but after Émile had arrived at the bar. Just before Émile left with Elliot, he had sent another hunter to ask Axel if he had seen anything suspicious, as he lived within the vicinity. By the time the hunter arrived, of course, Lydia and Maribelle were gone. The hunter relayed what Axel told him back to Émile, including that Lydia had left with his only two children and the fact that they had the _lourierre.  
        _The hunter asked why Émile wanted it so desperately. He did not answer.  
        But, if what Elliot had said was true, that would mean Victor and Oliver were _telé'l_ and that Isaac was sheltering _telé'l_ , which, Émile agreed, wouldn't be so far-fetched. His nephew was a _telé._ Who's to say Isaac would stop with just him? And, if Isaac was staying at his bar- fool-, it would be ludicrously easy for Émile to check for sure. And, so, that was what he planned to do; he planned to pay Isaac another visit. But, first, Émile realized, in order to reach the bar the quickest, he and his hunters would need to cut through swamps- the swamps of Ei-Vihaa. The hunters who were native to the island protested, but they did not say why- they couldn't; they refused to speak of it. Émile proclaimed loudly of the ridiculousness of their superstition and told them that, if they could not accompany the mission for fear of a fictional creature, they could look forward to being shipped back to Austria-Hungary and stripped of their positions and titles.  
        Émile never does learn, does he? For, not so long ago, he thought of _telé'l_ in the same way.  
        So, the hunters obeyed.   
        Émile took fourteen other hunters with him- fifteen traveling in total. Officers Alfons and Lütz and the three sailors were also present. There was no sign alerting them that they had entered the city of Ei-Vihaa, but the earth that softened beneath them was enough of an indication. They had resorted to abandoning their carriages and horses on the outskirts of the village, as the ground had become so boggy and sank so far underneath the weight of the carriages and horses that the risk of breakage became too great to force them to continue. The hunters carried as much as they could of what they brought, and they left on foot. A few hours afterward, the nearest clumps of houses and huts appeared, and they found themselves amid the village. It was humid, and the air itself felt as if it were sticking to your skin like a leech. But Émile was accustomed to such extremes in weather, as were all other hunters native to the area.  
        The village of Ei-Vihaa was small and sheltered a population of only one-hundred and fifty people. Most of those were children, as young adults often chose to move away and leave the elders and those few who chose to remain in the swamps. They did not bother the hunters as they passed. But they stared with devoid eyes and empty glares. However, someone did, evidently, recognize him. It was a young man who approached him, and who introduced himself as Eugène Noé. He was young, likely no older than eighteen. He must have been one of the ones to stay. Eugène was carrying a book in his arms. He gave it to Émile with a grave look and a forewarning that he would need it. He passed it to Alfons, who tossed it to another hunter, who began to rifle through the pages as if his life depended upon it.  
        Émile later saw, when they had entered the swamp, a group of Rousettean native hunters crowding around each other to get a look at the book. Likely some sort of folktale.  
        Even though it was day when they pushed through the village to the edge of the swamp, it was dark when they entered. They canopy above was so dense and the fog below so thick that it was as if the sun itself had disappeared entirely. Some of them carried torches, but all carried an air of malcontent. All of them, even Émile, arrogant as he was, was nervous. It had nothing to do with the fact that they may or may not be infringing on someone's territory. He was nervous because it was taking longer than he expected to get through the swamps. Hidden tree roots and sinkholes frequently slowed them down. However, from the port city of Tyyppi in Rousette to the province of Bopaume in Chalin, this was the fastest route. The territory in Bopaume juts out, past Prueilim, and onto the coast south of Tyyppi, where they had but to cross the swamp to be inside.  
        The wall between the two countries did not breach the interior of the swamp, but it, instead, curved around the swamp and swung back to accommodate the extra territory. Typically, the wall by the swamp was not watched by Rousetteans and, certainly, never by the Chalinians. Crossing would be easier than navigating the marshes. That is, if they remain uninjured. Of course, in order to even get to the swamps, they had to cross through Fluie, but nothing had befallen them there. Clearly, Elliot couldn't observe every acre of her land of every moment, but, if it were that easy, he very well might do it again.  
        The journey traveled well, unhindered. But just as he was about to express his frustration with their timorousness, Émile stopped. There was a building he hadn't noticed before. What was it doing in this swamp? It carried with it the smell of wax. "By God," Émile began. "Is that a _candle-shop?"_  
The other hunters turned to look.  
        It was a candle-shop. It was dilapidated, dark, clearly empty. But why did it still smell of wax? The sign that was suspended in front of the door was hanging by one rope; the other had broken and dangled uselessly. There was a sharp influx of panic within the group. They muttered to one another, shifting restlessly. One of them whispered to Émile that they needed to go. He gave to the President the book Eugène gave to them. Émile read it. It was the story of the Banshee. He broke. He threw the book to the mud and stomped on it with his boot. He shoved it into the ground as far as it would go.  
"Listen to me!" Émile bellowed. "What you are doing is ridiculous! You are scared, why? Because of a ghost? Because of a story? It is foolish, childish, like a little girl running from her own shadow. You are men, are you not? Stop this madness at once!"  
"Émile?"  
"That is Officer Leo to you." He turned brashly toward Riina.  
"Right, Officer Leo," Riina started. She looked intently at the candle-shop and said, with the weakness of bewilderment, "I've seen this before."  
"What?" Émile snapped. "How?"  
"I _have_ seen this before! By the bar! Outside! How in the hell is it here?"  
"Oh, my, yeah, I think Riina's right, Émile," Markus dumbly stated. "I think I remember seein' this, too."  
"I don't," Jorma said.  
"That can't be," Émile said. "You were drunk, seeing things."  
"No! I saw it; I did!" Riina protested. "I may 'ave been drunk, but I managed to plant the damn thing in their carriage! I'm sure I saw it!"  
        The moldy door creaked a few inches ajar. The hunters were all staring at it now. Some were pointing their rifles. The sailors went silent. Émile watched, tense and waiting. It had gone so quiet so suddenly that they could hear the chirping of birds and the croaking of frogs. They could hear the gentle blowing of the wind and the swishing of water as something passed through it. Émile whipped around, his fists clenched and his arms spread. His hair began to stick to his forehead as sweat rolled down the sides of his face. A hunter passed him a torch, which he held high in the air and began to swing it around in an attempt to see into every corner and crook and hole that was hidden in the swamp.  
" _BARACH'E!"_ Rung a shriek. " _Leran- så'tam- paikka!"_  
        Everyone froze at the sound of the voice. And it was silent, completely silent. No wind, no water, no animals. Silence. Émile would have considered it peaceful if it hadn't felt like the air had been drained from the swamp. The stillness was physical; his muscles ached under the instinctual urge to keep it. The door creaked once; Émile jumped to face it. It creaked again, inching forward slowly, gradually, with such piecemeal movement that one could only tell it was moving by the noise it made. Slender fingers curled around the side of the door, so pale they were comparable to the color of the moon. Then the hand appeared and grabbed the door, deliberately, methodically. A leg slid out of the opening, equally as pale and bony as the fingers. The foot pressed gently on the ground of the marsh until the watery mud covered it completely.  
        Émile stepped back. And something grabbed him. An immense pressure gripped his torso and pulled him to the ground as if he were being pulled by ropes, and he was immersed in the muddy floor of the swamp. He writhed, scratched, tried to shout but his mouth filled with water. Muffled yells and gunshots barely reached him. Émile groped for his rifle, found the stock of it, pointed wildly, and pulled the trigger. Immediately, the pressure subsided, and he lurched forward from the water, flailing his legs haphazardly to find footing. He gasped and choked as he tried to swallow air. He looked to the right just in time to see Officer Lütz be shot by another hunter and fall to the ground; he did not move.  
        A woman stood in the middle of the fray, ghostly white, still. Whatever bullets came her way passed through her, but it was not at her the hunters were shooting at. They were shooting at each other. The ghastly figure was ignored, and it was as if none of them saw her. But Émile did. "What are you doing?" He barked. "What are you doing to us?" She turned. Her face was bloated and calloused. Her lips were blue; her hair was wet and stuck to the sides of her face. Her eyes were milky. She was dead, but she was standing there, in front of him, staring at him. It terrified Émile. Her eyes suddenly widened as if she had just become aware of something.  
"Émile! What are you doing? By God, you've gone insane!" The phantom said. "Put it down!"  
"What?" He gasped. "What the hell do you mean? What are you?"  
"What am I?" She shouted. "You know me! I am Officer Ivan Lütz."  
Émile was beyond confused. "Ivan? Do not lie to me, creature! What are you? Tell me or I _will_ shoot!"  
"Put the rifle down, Émile! By God, you've gone insane!" The woman repeated. "Someone detain him!"  
The hunters around him were dead. They had killed each other.  
        Émile pulled the trigger and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the phantasmagorical woman was no longer in front of him. No, Officer Lütz laid on the ground, bleeding, dead, just as he had seen him before. The hunters around him- alive, not dead- stared at him as if they were staring at an alien. Émile was breathing heavily, willing himself not to accept what was before him. The sailors gawked at him. The candle-shop was gone.  
"The hell?" He whispered. "What the hell happened?"  
No one answered him.  
"TELL ME!" Émile roared. "What happened?"  
"You were pulled under water," Officer Alfons began, "by an alligator. We shot it away, and you began shouting nonsense at Lütz. And, and you shot him."  
"An alligator?" He looked over himself. He wasn't injured. "Are you sure?"  
"Yes, _président,"_ Felix affirmed. "It's a miracle you weren't injured." Felix never took his eyes off of Ivan's body.  
"Did you see her?"  
"See who?"  
"The candle-shop! Where is it?"  
"What candle-shop?" Alfons asked. "What on Earth are you talking of?"  
Émile was at a loss for words. "R-Riina!" He finally stammered out. "Did you not see it? The candle-shop?"  
"Me?" She wondered aloud. "Why'd there even be a candle-shop out in the middle o' a swamp? I didn' see nothin'."   
        Émile's arms were suddenly grabbed from behind, and he gave a shout of protest. One hunter held his shoulders, and another bound his hands with a rope. They took his rifle away from him. The hunter who bound his hands pushed him forward firmly.  
"I apologize, _président._ Until we get out of the swamp, you must stay this way. I will take your place, temporarily."  
        The sailors helped to carry Ivan's body.  
        Meanwhile, the candle-shop was back in Fortuê, snuggled comfortably within its nook in between a rose shop and a butchery. Who was inside? Torvald and Lydia. They were laughing, loudly, uncontrollably. Lydia was on her knees, gripping her midsection; her face was red with the strain of her laughter. Torvald was quieter and more gentle, but it was the first time in years he had laughed like this.  
"You did very well, my dear," Torvald said.  
Lydia calmed down. "It's been a while."  
"You do not do hallucinations often?"  
"No. I much prefer being there in person, but this was quite the experience."  
Torvald frowned. "Yes, I agree, but it is a shame the poor boy had to die."  
"Boy? He was older than that. He would have died in a fight, anyway, no doubt. I saved him a great deal of pain."  
"Yes, I know. It's a shame the girl died, too."  
Lydia looked at the body on their table. The little girl had gotten lost and drowned in the swamp, but the sight of it humbled her. "She was already dead, Torvald. It is good she had a use." Lydia paused and winked. "Let's hope that our presence was enough to repel Jolie, eh?"  
"Shall we bury her?" Torvald asked.  
"Yes, I think we should."  
"Where?"  
"Somewhere beautiful."  
Torvald thought.  
"Perhaps in the rose fields."  
        And this was one of the rare moments when Torvald left his candle-shop.


	25. September 23, 1817

      The history of Rousette and neighboring Chalin is complicated. In the island's earliest days, it was not, as it is now, Rousette and Chalin, but Sweden- Chalin- and Finland- Rousette. Then, Russia took control of Finland and so, too, Rousette. Russia-owned Rousette is the era in which Lydia was born. But, eventually, and lastly, the island in its entirety was captured by the French, from whom the countries get their current names. They gained their independence in 1802, on September 23. It was the day when Francis Phorus returned home to his wife. It would be another 15 years before they would take in Lydia- 15 years exactly. That fateful day- September 23, 1817. Elliot hadn't been born yet. Ruth was still a toddler. Elliot was born the next year on April 4. And Lydia hated her.  
        The way they cooed over her and cuddled into her made Lydia envious. She begrudged the affection Elliot was being shown. Lydia's parents had loved her- at least, her mother had-; that was true. But there was something about how her every waiting action was upon Elliot, how their attention swung to the child in a heartbeat. She had gotten attention before, negative or not. Now, Lydia was being ignored, completely cast to the side, except when someone asked her of something. It usually involved Elliot. She resented touching her. She had been tempted to rid herself of the burden countless times, and she would have. But she never did. Once, she had dangled Elliot over the well they had in the courtyard. But she didn't drop her. She never did. So what changed her mind? What held her back? I will not say it is because, deep down, she felt something for the child. She didn't. She hated Elliot. Then, what was it? Torvald, monster as he was, begged her not to kill the baby.  
        Torvald and Lydia had stayed in contact with one another, and he was the one holding back the volcano of wrath that had been Lydia. He promised her that a better opportunity would come to take her revenge. Lydia listened, and she was glad she listened. Because that opportunity did come. It came at the perfect moment. It came during the carriage crash in Fluie.  
        Jeanne had said that Maribelle had visited the asylum when Elliot was away, but that could not be. At that time, the crash had occurred, and Maribelle had been there with them. She had saved Elliot. But they were sure that the woman who had visited Francis gave her name specifically as Maribelle Volleh. Who, then, was it? Lydia? It was not Lydia. The perfect opportunity cane during the crash, but that does not mean she took it. Torvald, being like Lydia? No. It was neither of them.  
        Whoever had killed Francis did not matter. Either way, the Governor was dead, and, whether or not someone is willing to admit it, it is what he wanted.  
        How then, if Torvald has such influence in the court of Lydia's decisions, is the relationship between the two of them? We should start by clarifying that, of all living being, Torvald knows the most of her beginnings and of anything afterward. Lydia is the driving force. She is the one who sought to speak with him after what he had done, to keep in touch with him. Torvald wouldn't have if she had not, but that is not to say he did not value their relationship. He did, perhaps more than any one he had ever had. And what of Lydia's lover? Lydia had not after he went insane. Torvald had not, either. But he kept tabs on him; that is, he knew where he was. Torvald did not tell Lydia that he knew, but she knew he knew, anyway. Hearing it out loud brings a second, unnecessary wave of sting.  
        What Torvald really found a mystery was how Lydia managed to create a true, wholesome bond between them, if a little one-sided. He was not talking of the physical bond, but the emotional bond, which was, indeed, tragically, somewhat one-sided. He did not understand how it had happened, how she had become so attached to Elliot. Sure, Torvald had persuaded Lydia to spare the child, but that was for the simple act of saving a life. As far as Torvald could tell, their relationship was truly accidental. A case of being in the right place at the right time.  
        What was troubling Torvald, more than the mystery of the Governor's and Lydia's relationship, was the situation of destroying the artificial bond, the fatal bond. He has thought about it ever since Lydia left him. He had gone to great lengths to save her from Lydia; certainly, Torvald did not want Elliot to die. He had grown to love Lydia like a daughter; definitely, he did not want her to die. But just because he did not want either of them to die does not mean he would prevent either from happening. Torvald understood it was one or the other. He had supplied Lydia with the knowledge of one solution. It was up to her to decide what to do with it.  
        Whatever the decision would be, Torvald would try to support her.  
        This future uncertainty was not the only thing he sensed. There was something more, something urgent and threatening. There were hunters on the land, too close to comfort. It should be explained, firstly, before anything else, that Torvald rarely travels without his candle-shop. This is best shown in the fact that when Abraham went back to the rose shop in Fortuê, the empty candle-shop was no longer there.  
        Everything happens very quickly for Torvald in his old home. Centuries have gone by in a matter of months. He rarely went out from this candle-shop, but, when he did, one can be sure it was important. He always took a walking stick, for he was frail in his old age, and a lantern, in case it was dark. Often, if his pains were worse, he would fix the lantern to the top of the stick in order to save him from the trouble of carrying it with his other hand. Torvald never left without this stick and lantern.  
        This was the case that day. In fact, it had barely been ten minutes after Abraham left that he felt the need to move the candle-shop and go out. Ten minutes, of course, to Torvald, is ten days to anyone outside. Going out was always a struggle for him. It was as if all the time he had missed in his shelter hit him at once, like being hit in the chest with a hammer. It usually took a few moments for him to collect himself afterward. What Torvald did that day no one witnessed or heard or felt. But he did come back with his coat wrapped around a bundle of something. Then, he went back inside. Five days later, a woman entered. Half a day passed until the candle-shop vanished. Another half passed, and it appeared again in the darkness of night. The man and woman exited immediately; they were each sharing the burden of carrying something. If one looked close enough, one could tell it was a body wrapped in bedsheets. The couple marched off like this toward the rose fields of Fortuê. They had a lantern to guide them, affixed atop the old man's walking stick.  
        They did not return until the next morning, but they did not look tired; on the contrary, they appeared more lively than they had when they left, despite the long journey with nothing to carry the body but their shoulders. One hint may be supplied as to what happened in the fields: they did not go hungry that night.  
        Do not get them wrong, for, with creatures like them, they do not consider such a thing offensive or disrespectful. On the contrary, they found it to be an honor. After all, one is helping the survival of, perhaps, several people; you are useful even in death. Of course, since _kuollaan_ are not born the way they are, not all of them think this way. But Lydia and Torvald certainly did, and it was not a bad thing simply because others might have thought it was. However, they were not blind to current mannerisms, and Torvald, while he did not know her name, created a crude headstone where they buried what was left of her. It read:  
         _"Er asét-en libéré seâme;  
        Septembre 23, 1843;  
        Lua on dostín í paccé."_  
        Lydia thanked her, laid roses which she bound together on the base of the gravestone, and they left.  
        And it wasn't long before they left the rose field that Ballast flew down toward her. When Ballast let out its message, it was not Isaac's voice, like she would have expected, but Elliot's. She told her that she must get back to the manor as soon as possible, for something had happened. It was then Torvald and Lydia parted ways; he said they were not ready to see him yet, as if there was anything to get ready for. His mysteriousness frustrated her.  
        To explain what next happens, we have to first explain that the village of Ei-Vihaa has long been a harbinger of unluckiness. Something would always befall those who visited the swampy town, perhaps because of the witch Jolie, whose soul, many think, clung to the village and haunted it. Whatever alien stepped foot in the village or the swamp would be stricken with misfortune when they left. Natives to the town were protected, even if they chose to leave. Why? Because Jolie sees them as her only companions, and, as such, she wants to protect them. But any foreigner was an object of her aggression; she viewed them as threats.  
        However, Lydia had, in turn, protected Émile and the other hunters from Jolie's curse simply by being present in the swamps; she was more powerful, and Jolie knew that. So she backed off until Lydia saw that the hunters were safe. But who was there to protect Lydia from the curse? Sure, she was more powerful than Jolie, but she was not invincible to whatever Jolie had up her sleeves. And, thus, yes, Lydia was cursed, as risky as it was for Jolie to plant it on her. Lydia knew she was cursed; she wasn't stupid. But, for now, so long as nothing drastic happened, she would do nothing about it.  
        And here she was, making her way to Abraham's manor, wondering if it was, in fact, because of the curse that "something had happened," as Elliot vaguely said. Then she began to wonder if something had happened at all, if this was just a sensory trick played by Jolie in order to get Lydia in a certain situation. Or if it was something other than Jolie- something more like her who would be able to accurately mock a sound or person or voice. But then she realized that she was just being stupid and paranoid and chastised herself for being so.  
        As Lydia walked, she saw that the streets appeared unusually empty. Typically, especially in Fortuê, people would, at the very least, be in the fields harvesting roses. There weren't any. Every once in a while, she would pass a single person or a carriage or a few families, but that was all. There was no one in the fields despite the roses being in full bloom. She thought. And it came to her. She remembered that Torvald had written the date on the girl's gravestone: September 23, 1843. No wonder there was no one in the streets! Likely, they were celebrating Rousette's independence day. Getting drunk. Making a mess of themselves and their houses. Creating fights. But this day meant more to Lydia than her country's independence. It was also the day she was taken in by Francis. She had promised herself that she would get over it, but who could blame her for not quite being able to? She still hated him, if subconsciously, and the treatment she faced when in his home made her shudder when she thought of it, even upward of thirty years later.  
        To keep her thoughts away from such a dark place, Lydia kept her internal compass pointed toward the Governor and her message. She looked up and saw Ballast flying above her, puffing smoke into the clear sky.  
"Polluter," she whispered. "Waste of space. Real horses and real people work finely as messengers. I remember when nothing like you existed."  
        And then Ballast's wing shattered when a bullet flew through the air. The pieces of silver fell to the ground. It tried to stay afloat by rapidly flapping its remaining wing. But the hole where its wing used to be erupted into flames, and it barreled to the ground a few yards away from Lydia. Ballast did not move again after impact. Lydia looked in the direction where the bullet came. It was a large, loud, rowdy crowd of people in the middle of the street, waving the blue, green, and white stripes of the Rouséttean flag. She ducked behind a deserted market table whose goods were rotting in the summer sun. Two more bullets came her way; one struck the table, and another hit a decapitated fish which had been wrapped in a bloody cloth. They were surrounding something on fire; large clouds of smoke billowed upward. They were cheering; someone was giving something like a speech likely sparked by alcohol.  
        It wasn't until the drunkards in the crowd shut up that she could tell what the loudest one was slurring. They were preaching domination of Chalín, and they were burning Chalínian flags. The shooters had turned their attention away from her. When she peeked out above the table, Lydia could see them on the outskirts of the town. They were both men, holding rifles and a bottle of wine, which they shared. A very dangerous combination. Lydia kept her crouching position for a few more minutes, just to be sure that she would not be nearly killed again. She stood and slinked off to the side of the road, where she found it was safe enough to stalk forward through the trees.  
"Chalín will be, once again, a part of Rousétte!" The man shouted. "There will be a Chalín no longer! Nor will there be such a thing as a Chalínian! We will slaughter them! We will take over!  _Oir voer gri'dén Chalín!"_  
This proclamation was celebrated with whistles and cheers even though Chalín had never once been part of Rousétte and, thus, could not "again" be part of her.  
        But it soon fell silent. Hoof-beats thundered down the path, shouts that she couldn't understand rang out, but it did not slow down, even as the carriage plowed toward the crowd. And when the throng realized that it was not, in fact, slowing down, the people dispersed wildly with shrieks and yells and pushing and crawling. The carriage skidded to a stop before the fire, teetering precariously to the side. Everything was still for a moment as the people amongst the trees collected themselves. The cowards had dropped their Rouséttean flags in their rush to save themselves. Ballast had been crushed under the carriage, and, on the point of the carriage, Lydia did not recognize it.  
        It was more grandiose than the Governor's carriage; the horses which carried it were perfectly silver and polished. They were taller and bulkier than the common models of that day. Most likely they were custom-made to compensate for the sizable nature of the carriage. The wheels were golden in contrast to the sleek purple of the body, which was adorned with patterns of roses that wrapped and twirled and coiled around the workings of the coach. The handles to the doors were inside a bear's mouth. Lit lanterns sat atop short, curled pillars on every corner of the roof. For a minute, nothing happened.  
        Then the door farthest to Lydia opened. It was Abraham. He was grim, dark, frowning deeper than she had ever seen him. He looked forlornly at the burning Chalínian flags, and she wondered for the first time just how much of a toll the war between the two countries took on him. He looked at the small crowds of cowering protestors. Abraham took off his hat and whispered something, which Lydia distinctly recognized as the national Chalínian anthem. He put his hat back on. "Citizens," his voice boomed. "This is exceedingly disappointing."  
One of the men whom Lydia recognized to be one who shot at her stepped forward. "Yeah? And why should we care what an old _gargoyle_ like you thinks about us?"  
Abraham ignored the man's slight. "You should care because you believe Rousétte to be better than Chalín, correct? Do you see or hear of a single Chalínian man or woman burning Rouséttean flags? Do you see any one Chalínian citizen cursing the name of Rousétte? They may feel spite when they hear our name, but it is only because they envision something like this exact scene when it comes across their minds. You taint the name of Rousétte with these acts, citizens. This is the picture you are projecting to Chalín, to the world. One would not be surprised if an onlooker's favor lay with our poor, oppressed brothers. You say you are better than them, and yet you prove yourselves wrong every time with each act of violence and each act of hatred enacted against them."  
        The wind began to pick up. Abraham prepared himself to speak again, but the wind had begun to blow so wildly and made such a piercing whistle that even if he had begun he would not have been heard. The fire grew bigger and harsher with the oxygen that was being forced into it. Lydia was surprised at this from her hiding place amongst the bushes. She was searching for a presence, some kind of sign that something was there, but there was none. The only inhuman thing she could sense was herself. But, then, surely, a human does not have the ability to do such a thing? The protesters stayed back in awe and in fear. There was a flash of light brighter than the sun, it seemed, but it died down in a matter of seconds. The wind had stopped; the fire was put out.  
        Lydia burst forth from the forest underbrush and rushed upon Abraham. He was covering his face with his hands. "Abraham!" She shouted. "Abraham, are you alright? Are you hurt?"  
He nodded, apparently so shocked he was unable to speak.  
        The protesters began to scream and shout when they opened their eyes and realized that they could not see. Lydia looked out toward the crowd. Some were near enough that she could see their eyes, and she recoiled in disgust when she did. Their eyes were black and red and bloody. If she did not know better, Lydia would have said their eyes had been removed, and only the dark, hollow sockets gaped from where they used to be. Abraham, however, was just fine; he had not been so much as touched. She pushed him toward the carriage, and Merlin, who had been driving it, stepped down from the coachbox and helped force Abraham into it. Lydia joined him, and Merlin took off before she had even the time to fully close the door.  
        Their screams seemed to follow them through the forest as if begging to be guided out.  
"Lydia," Abraham spit out. "Lydia, I've seen that thing before."  
"What thing? Whatever was in the fire? You've seen it before?"  
"Yes, yes- I'm sure of it," his voice was pained as if the words stung his tongue.  
"What did it look like?"  
"It was- It was a room, I think. There were so many people there, so finely dressed. I could say it was a ball. But, but, it was over in seconds."  
"It must have been a memory."  
"No, no, it wasn't. I have only ever been to a ball once in my life, since the wars never really allowed for much dancing. I have seen that room before, but I have never seen it like that."  
"That is- That's, that's strange," Lydia whispered. "Do you think we shall tell Elliot when-"  
"No, we shouldn't," Abraham was quick to respond. "It will only make her worry, and, really, there's no point in complicating things further."  
"I suppose you're right."  
        After the trees began to thicken and the narrow path began to stretch into mountain and become even thinner and when they knew they were finally entering Fluie, Abraham gradually came out of his shock. He stuttered, saying no particular word, before he timidly asked, "L-Lydia, you were at the protest, weren't, weren't you?"  
She laughed out loud. "You don't think I was with them, burning Chalínian flags, do you?"  
Abraham gave her a look.  
Lydia's laughter quickly silenced as if she had swallowed it. "You're not serious?"  
"Well-" He started.  
"No!" Lydia defended. "Of course I wasn't! I was passing by on my way to your manor after Ballast brought to me Elliot's message. They shot at me, and I hid. That was when you came."  
"Ah, I see. I'm, I'm sorry. I was just- curious, you know."  
She lifted an eyebrow at him, but she did not say anything more on the subject.  
"Merlin seemed untouched by the light, too," she said. "I wonder what he saw."  
Abraham thought, judging something. He looked around for a moment. "What did you see?"  
Lydia raised her eyebrows and lifted her shoulders. She rolled her head away from Abraham. In truth, she hadn't seen anything; it was just a bright flash and then nothing. Lydia was surprised anyone had seen anything at all, much less why some were blinded and why some were not. So she was honest with him. "I didn't see a thing. Well, I did see the flash, but that was it."  
"Really?" Abraham absentmindedly coiled the end of his beard around his finger. "Strange. You don't think it has anything to do with-"  
"My not being human?" She interrupted. "Perhaps. But it would be nice to know what it was before we make any assumptions."  
"Oh, yes, I see. Of course."  
"But I was human once. If it was a memory-"  
"It wasn't," Abraham corrected.  
"-then I would have seen something. I _do_ have memories from when I was human. I remember everything. I have no idea why I didn't see anything." She turned back toward Abraham. "You're a hunter, aren't you?"  
"Oh, oh, yes. I am. Why?"  
"But you do not hunt?"  
"No. I hate it. What does this have anything to do with the flash?"  
"I was thinking that you might have an idea as to what caused it, but, if you rarely hunt, I suppose you wouldn't."  
Abraham hummed. "You may do well to ask Maribelle. She might have a clue. But, then, you weren't planning on telling anyone else, were you?"  
"No, I wasn't. But I doubt people are just going to ignore a group of citizens suddenly struck blind in the forest. It will get out eventually."  
"You're right."  
Lydia laughed. "At least no one there will be able to identify us, should they need to. Although, they, if anyone, were the ones committing a crime."  
Abraham did not laugh. "I suppose."  
Her laugh silenced again. "My apologies, Abraham. Here I am laughing and attempting jokes, while you're shouldering the burden of witnessing a terrible affront to your own people."  
He did not answer.  
"I'm sorry to say that I never really stopped to think how this war was affecting you," Lydia continued. Whether or not this was some sort of unnecessary apology, Abraham couldn't very well tell.  
He decided to speak. "It is quite alright. It was predictable that Rousétte and Chalín would eventually come for the other's head. In times like these, you must choose a side, and I chose Rousétte. There is nothing to be sorry for, my dear."  
"It was still very honorable of you to defend Chalín like that, even if you have chosen to support her enemy in the end," Lydia praised.  
Abraham was silent for a long while. "I'm not so sure about that. I was born in Chalín, after all. While no living relative of mine may live there now, some have perished there and are buried there. I still feel a connection to that land."  
Lydia felt somewhat humbled in Abraham's presence. She found it appropriate to stay quiet.  
"I do not know if it was the right choice to choose Rousétte, but it is what I ultimately chose; so it is what I will stick with."  
"All we can do is hope that both nations are alright in the end."  
"That may not be so."  
"That is true, but what good will that sort of thinking do us? There is nothing we can do to change the way things are. Let us just hope."  
        Abraham nodded. He distracted himself by pulling back the curtains covering the carriage door window and looking at the mountainous forest just outside. Every so often the carriage would jerk or rock when it passed over rocks or dipped into a shallow hole. The trees in the Fluiean forest were tall and looming; oftentimes the branches did not start flowering with spiny cones for several feet up the trunk of the tree, which allowed the viewer to see well into the forest, but it also created the unfortunate sense of being small and alone and insignificant and looked down upon if one was standing amidst them.   
        Hardly were there paths that led into the forest, for so thickly were the trees clumped together in some places that a person and horse could barely move through, much less a bulky, thickset carriage. Usually, only one road was blazed through the center of the forest, and nothing more. The trees were too symbolically precious to the people of the island and too tied to their superstitions for them to dare to fell them. Therefore, if one was lost in the maze of pines, there was little hope of returning to the road. On a better note, a large portion of the forests are untouched by human hands and unseen by human eyes. They're pure in every sense of the word. The waters of the creeks that run through those patches are clear and cool and sweet, as seductive to the senses as art is to the soul. The sound of the wind through the branches is music unlike any human ears have ever heard or will ever hear, for it is impossible to ever encounter it. The further you go in your search for it, the further it flees until it does not exist at all.  
        To preserve this kind of loveliness, it is best to leave it be, for the fact that it is left alone is what gives it its beauty.


	26. Eliseo Vargas

        It should be made known that Abraham did not choose to become a hunter. He is a kind, gentle man at heart, and to kill creatures for the simple fact that they exist was absolutely unfathomable to him. His family had been hunters, as far as he knew, since the earliest documents he possessed of his ancestors- even the women. Abraham, perhaps because of his roots, tolerated what other hunters did, whether he liked it or not. He did not step in to stop it; he did not speak up against it. As long as he was not part of it, he was content.  
        But Abraham knew he was part of it.  
        He was part of it, no matter what he did. If he stayed on the sidelines, if he stepped into the fight, if he aided the hunters, if he protected the _telé_ , no matter what he did, he was part of it. He had been part of it since his birth. His only living blood relatives were his cousins; they were no longer in Rousétte. The last time Abraham had heard of them, they were in Poland together, but they could be dead, for all he knew. Maribelle was the only active hunter in his immediate family. She wanted to train their children to be like her, to keep up the Volleh and Abêlone- that is, Maribelle's family- names. Abraham did not want to, but he loved her; so, he did not interrupt. He had faith that his children could make their own decisions when they were in the full swing of things.  
        That being said, Abraham did not like Émile. Émile was, in a sense, obsessed. He was obsessed with, as he put it, "purifying" Rousétte, if not the world. As to why he had such an intense inclination toward slaughtering _telé'l,_ he did not know. Émile was a mystery to him, perchance to everyone. And, while Elliot rested at her own manor- for, in the months she was away, she had resumed her position as governor of Fluie-, the Governor had tasked Abraham, Lydia, and Merlin to find out what they could about Oliver and Victor, starting with Fortuê, where the roses laid on Delilah's grave had come from. Abraham knew where exactly to go, for the shop which sold the largest variety of roses in Fortuê was the one he had appeared beside after he left the candle shop, the one Raphael and Heidi had visited.  
        Personally, Abraham thought that going there was unnecessary, but, perhaps, they could find something of use. He trusted the Governor, and, after all, she was putting her very life on the line to help him. Abraham could not remember what he had done to earn this kind of repayment. Maybe he would ask Elliot about it sometime. Nevertheless, Abraham inside the carriage with Merlin, Lydia sat outside in the coachbox and guided the horses along. He knew very well that Lydia could predetermine where they could walk and suspected that the only reason she decided to lead them manually was so she didn't have to speak with him or Merlin. And on the subject of Merlin, his hand really had ended up needing to be amputated- what was left of it, anyway. Émile's rifle had done most of the work for the nurses. They said gangrene was the issue, but none of the others could be quite sure; they were not allowed to see Merlin before the decision was made. Merlin did not speak about it, understandably.   
        Getting to the shop wasn't a problem for them; it was maneuvering throughout the crowd of people that was the challenge. Compared to other provinces as populous as Chlealiva, it was relatively small, smaller than even Fluie, which meant the streets were always usually crowded, especially in the marketplace. The rose shops were only open in the spring and summer, and they ran short of roses frequently; thus, there was somewhat of a rush to get them, considering a portion of the roses were being shipped overseas to other nations or else kept in Rousétte to be turned into oil and used in fragrances. But these behaviors were not without justification.  
        Chlealivian roses are the only beautiful things about the province, and, perhaps, the most beautiful things on the swampy island entirely. Their petals are most commonly a light, pastel pink, comparable to the gentle hue of a baby's blue eyes. They were so soft to the touch that many considered it to be- somewhat of an exaggeration- like feeling pieces of cloud. The petals were many, but they were spread apart, instead of bunched closely together. Pink was the most common and the most popular, but white and red Chlealivian roses were often bred and sold in addition to the pink. It was those, the red ones, that Elliot was after, the ones that had been laid on Delilah's grave.  
        The roses of Rousétte have very distinctive colors across breeds, so it was with ease that they identified the kind of rose that had been laid on the woman's grave. They would have let it go entirely if it had not been for the note that they had left in the snow by the bundle of flowers. It did not match the handwriting on Victor's note, but Elliot kept insisting that he must have something to do with it, that the trail- "What trail?"Lydia had asked her- could not just simply end there. Isaac, who had abandoned his bar per Lydia's advice and joined them in Rousétte, agreed that it might be something worth looking in to. He told them that Victor was a "romantic sort of fool" and that it was incredibly like "that stud" to do something so "mysterious". Elliot told him that he was missing the point entirely. Lydia told her, in turn, that there was no point at all in this.   
        Isaac had been more or less forced to tell them everything he knew about Victor and Oliver. He told them that they had been customers for a long while and that he had even seen Delilah with them once or twice but that was only because she wasn't much of a drinker. Oliver and Victor always came to the bar together; he knew they were brothers before they actually told him. It was easy enough to tell. Isaac said he hadn't seen Oliver ever since he was convicted for Delilah's murder, but Victor had visited one last time. He said it was the first time Victor had ever come to the bar without Oliver. He looked empty, he said, grey and fatigued as if he had contracted some kind of illness. Lydia squinted her eyes and made a peculiar expression not unlike one she would make if she stepped in mud and the saturation seeped into her boots. Elliot couldn't tell what she was thinking. He hardly spoke to him or to others, and, as soon as he had drained his drink, he left. That was the last time Isaac ever saw Victor. Elliot sighed in frustration at the lack of useful information but supposed it was a good thing that Victor was spotted alive at least once in Chalín after Oliver's conviction.  
        So, on that note, Lydia was sent with Abraham and Merlin to go to the rose shop in Fortuê to see if the staff there knew anything of a Victor or Oliver Woodry who may or may not have been there a few months prior to buy roses for a dead woman no one in Rousétte even knew existed, and, oh, Lydia could go on and on about why this was not a good idea. At the end of her dramatic charade, the clerk was left looking thoroughly dumbfounded and stared at her with the emptiest look she had ever seen as if Lydia had just been speaking to him in Russian. She looked at him for a few moments before she clarified that she was looking specifically for a Victor or Oliver Woodry, again. He spoke to her in a strange accent, likely from somewhere in Europe, "Look, lady, if you're after your little- what is it called-  _novio-_ boyfriend and trying to catch him with some other girl-"  
"No!" Lydia shouted. "No, that's not what this is about! He's not my, my  _novio_ or whatever it is you said; he's a, a crucial piece in an investigation, if you must know. What that investigation is, I am not authorized to tell you,-"  
"Vargas. Eliseo Vargas, Madame."  
"Right, Eliseo." Lydia smiled. "A very beautiful name, might I add, Eliseo. But what I am after is a man I very well and truly despise, not an unfaithful lover."   
Eliseo winked at her. "There's not very much of a difference, Madame."   
Lydia was not amused, as charming as Eliseo may have been. "He may be a fugitive from justice, you understand, which is something I  _do_ need you to understand. Would you please be a dear, Eliseo, and check with whomever may work here with you if they had seen or heard of two individuals by the name of Oliver and Victor Woodry?"   
He smiled, but it was not a mocking smile, as she was expecting. It was a real smile that made her feel a little guilt at her tone. "Of course, Madame-" He paused and raised an eyebrow.  
"Lydia Blackwater."   
Eliseo left her with noticeable haste.  
Abraham went stiff. "Lydia, I, I don't think giving him your name was such a good i-idea."  
"Why on earth not?"   
Merlin seemed to hold the same opinion. He gravely said, "We need to leave. Now."   
"Well, good God, why don't you tell me what you're talking about?"  
        But Merlin grabbed her forearm and whisked her outside with Abraham before she got another word out. A bullet hit the door when Merlin swung it open; another hit the ground in front of him. One barely missed him and shattered a vase inside the shop. He slammed the door shut, and they were thus forced inside. "Hunters?" Lydia whispered.  
"Hunters," Abraham fearfully affirmed.   
"I'm afraid we've foolishly fallen into a trap of theirs."   
"You mean the roses? The note? That was the hunters' doing?"   
"Possibly," Merlin said. He was fumbling around the shop, looking for something to use as a weapon, no doubt.   
But Lydia was calm. "Let us hope that Émile has the goodness to grace us with his presence."   
"Hope? Goodness?" Abraham exclaimed. "Do you know what this might mean for you, Lydia?"   
"Yes. A major inconvenience but perhaps a chance to learn something."   
        And then the door opened, and who else to appear but the man they were just speaking of himself? For it was true, it was Émile Leo himself. He was different; his features were severe as he glared at them, begging them to step out of line, to say something amiss so that he might have a reason to break, a state of chaos he was so urgently close to already. Émile did not smile, did not show any sign of the triumph they knew he must have been feeling. Eliseo appeared shamefully behind him, for shamefully did he walk in; his eyes were cast down, his shoulders slumped forward, his head bowed. Instead, Émile grimaced. He went forward and struck his rifle against Lydia's head. Her neck snapped to the side. Blood began to trickle down the wound, but she did not fall to her knees, did not say or do anything but grunt in annoyance. She cracked her neck and brought it level again.   
        He was caught off guard. Merlin lunged forward, bringing a sickle dangerously close to Émile's throat, but the officer blocked it with his rifle. He gave a hearty laugh. "Ha! Do you want me to take your other hand, boy?" Eliseo did nothing but stand by the door. "Vargas!" Émile shouted. "Apprehend them!"   
        Eliseo shuttered into movement. He mouthed something to Lydia, who appeared to be only more agitated by it. He started with Abraham. While he was tying his hands together, he leaned in by his neck and whispered something to him. Eliseo did the same to Lydia, and she heard quite clearly what he had whispered to Abraham. It was very quiet, very subtle; he had to say it behind them so as to avoid attention from Émile:  _"I will help you. Trust me, please, for your own sake."_ Lydia begrudgingly allowed him to tie her hands. Eliseo couldn't tie Merlin up, so he simply tied a rope to Merlin's remaining hand and tied the other end so closely to Lydia's makeshift handcuffs that he was forced to walk behind Lydia, sideways, to get anywhere.  
"Well, isn't that nice," Émile said. "Tied up easy as that. I was thinking something like you would put up a bit more of a fight. But, of course, you probably have a plan. Things like you are intelligent. The only reason you would submit and allow yourself to be taken like this is if you have a plan, if you have a surefire way of getting out. Am I wrong? Is it your Governor who is coming to liberate you? Or, perhaps, another monstrous _fiend_?"  
"The roses," Lydia started. "Was that-"  
"Who said you were allowed a question?" Émile interrupted. "Be quiet, will you?" He paused. "As for whatever roses you're talking of, the only roses I've seen in years are those in the fields right behind us. I've no idea what you're talking about." He nodded to Eliseo. "Vargas, escort them out, if you will."   
        Eliseo- quite roughly, in Lydia's opinion- took them outside the rose shop, where the three could see that they had been all but submerged in a hunter's nest, for, when they stepped out the door, they were surrounded by jovial hunters, who began to clap and cheer as if the bound three were performers on a stage bowing after the final act of a play. Lydia turned to Eliseo and urgently whispered, "That help would be nice, if you're actually planning on giving it. He's been after my head for months."   
"I know," Eliseo whispered just as urgently back. "But not yet."  
"And why on earth not?" Lydia asked.   
"Do you not see the throng of hunters before us?" Eliseo snapped.   
"I'm not blind, fool. I wouldn't ask you to free me in this moment if I could not handle it. All I need is to be let loose. They cannot hurt me then." Lydia's voice was calm, unwavering, not begging- simply suggesting.   
"And what about us other three?" He asked.  
"If only you will stay behind me, you shall remain safe."   
Eliseo's expression was one of deep thought. "Are you sure?"   
"I'm positive."   
He stared intently at her, but the moment lasted only a few seconds. "No," he said finally. "I don't trust you. Leave it to me."  
Émile had joined them outside at last. "Lydia, you have no idea how wonderful it is to see your face. I've been looking for you."  
"I'm well aware. But why? Why do you look for me?"  
"You're very unique. Something I've never seen. I will admit: I was afraid of you when I first saw what you are. But I know what you are now."   
"What am I?"  
"You are a _kuollaan._ You are a cannibal. You are a coward. You are a monster."   
" _Kuollaan?"_ Lydia heard Eliseo repeat from behind her. "I knew she was something, but-" He stopped suddenly.   
"A  _kuollaan_ is someone who is turned into a monster upon committing cannibalism and consuming a substance called  _lourrierre._ Sound familiar? However, the same substance, after they are turned, is incredibly toxic to the  _kuollaan_ , and there is almost no chance of survival if it is consumed again after an individual is turned. A little ironic, isn't it? That is why the hunters are after the  _lourrierre,_ if you must know. To kill creatures like you."   
Lydia did not say anything.  
"What I also found interesting is the form of the  _kuollaan_ differs depending on the person. This is why it is terribly difficult to tell  _kuollaan_ apart from other monsters, but I've managed. What intrigues me most is that if the person has committed  _murder_ prior to their turning, they oftentimes take the form of a deer- a disfigured, rotting deer. Symbolic of innocence lost. That does sound dreadfully familiar."   
Abraham looked at her with the most forlorn look she had ever seen him wear, as if he would burst with dismay.  
"Stop," she whispered.   
"What was that?" Émile mocked. " _Stop?"_  
        Lydia looked at him with wrath and malice, the amount of which she felt in that moment was unrivaled to any other. It was not so much the fact that Émile was continuously tormenting her with things she already knew, but the fact that she felt that Elliot might somehow catch wind of this, that someone might tell her something she wished to keep secret. What she feared most was Elliot's scorn, Elliot's disappointment. She would not allow this to reach the Governor.  
"Why do you do this?" Lydia said. "Why not let us go, let us live?"  
"Oh, dear!" Émile exclaimed. "This is beautiful! Quite satisfactory! 'Why not let us live?' Says the murderer!" He laughed aloud. "Why couldn't your victim live, Lydia? If not for the sole reason that you are a monster, you have committed two very grave crimes- cannibalism and murder. Is that not reason enough for you to be erased from this nation? Wiped clean from Rousétte's dirty hands? Even now, people are being burned at the stake for less than that- witches, they say! That may or may not be true. They could be innocent! Indeed, some of them are! But yet they burn! And here you stand, a murderer, a cannibal, a criminal, and you dare ask for your life in the face of the pure being executed?"   
Lydia had no words.   
"You are ashamed! I see it in your eyes. You do not need to voice it; it is obvious enough. But I suppose even monsters have something to live for. After all, is that not why you turned in the first place?"  
She was silent.  
"No!" Émile exclaimed. "Could it be? Is it not 'something' but a 'someone'?"   
"It is," Lydia shamefully answered.  
He guffawed. "A monster in love! That is new, a treasure, a rarity. But I'm afraid you won't be going back to them today, Lydia."   
        All at once, Eliseo let loose the knot binding Lydia's hands together, and she sprang forward like a bird set free from its cage. She thought of attacking Émile; she wanted to; oh, so badly did she want to, but she had more self-control than that, more sense than that. A deafening roar rang out suddenly, explosively, as the cartridges from hunters' rifles were expelled toward her. Not all of them hit their mark, but what did hit was enough to crack her bones and rip her skin and tear her organs; but Lydia was faster, stronger. She had turned into a beast faster than Eliseo had untied Abraham's hands. She could not speak like this, could not relay to them how much she hated them, but Lydia could not bring herself to hurt them. Never had she ever hesitated like this.   
"Lydia!" Eliseo called. "What are you waiting for? Les' get out of here!"   
        While the hunters busied themselves with reloading, Lydia took her companions and fled.


	27. A Monster

Lydia did not touch the steaming cup of tea that sat in front of her, prettily perched atop a cracked floral saucer. Her arms were crossed in front of her chest; her leg was bouncing anxiously, sending vibrations that made the tea cup rattle gently. Torvald's walking stick rested against the table; the lantern that was affixed to it had been put out, shrouding the room in semi-darkness. The only thing that gave off light was the fire that relentlessly blazed underneath a cauldron of wax. The smell had grown so strong she could taste the sickeningly synthetic, dull flavor of it. It blocked the mélange of other scents that twirled and danced with each other in the air around her- the smell of wet wood, the smell of tea, the smell of fire, the smell of blood.  
        The blood was her own, of course. She was the only one who had been injured in their flight, but it was a sacrifice she had given countless times before and would continue to give in the future until she had no blood left. It was a strange feeling, being so willing to give yourself up to others like she was. Lydia had never felt it before. It was not some sort of noble abdication that she dug up from the raw core of her heart for the simple action of saving a life. It was more selfish than that, more complex. She did not care for the lives she saved while they fled, neither those of her companions nor the ones of her pursuers.  
        Since the day she told Elliot about their bond, Lydia had eyes for only one life: Elliot's. She cared only for Elliot, lived only for Elliot. She saved others' lives because she knew that Elliot would think her better for it; if not that, then because Elliot would despair at their deaths. That is the sole reason. If Elliot did not exist, those Lydia knew today may perhaps have been long buried, mourned, and forgotten. She was not bothered by the lack of recognition for her acts; she knew it was not normal to think this way, but she was a monster, after all, was she not? Perhaps it was time to finally live up to what they called her. She was a monster.  
        If it had not been obvious already, Torvald had rescued the obstructionists. They had entered quickly. Eliseo introduced himself to Torvald with something like a coalescence of vehemence and vacillation. In total, they had stayed a measly three minutes, and, when they exited, three days had passed. To the hunters, they had vanished. The pursued had no doubt that the hunters stuck around in the forest and were even now keeping a look out for any signs of them. Still, Lydia demanded an answer from Eliseo, who accepted the questions and answered to the best of his ability.  
"Eliseo, was it?" She began. "Who are you?"  
"Lydia-"  
"No!" She shouted at Merlin. "Do you not think we deserve answers?"  
"Who are you?" Lydia repeated. "A hunter? What?"  
"I am a hunter, Madame, but I do not hunt."  
"What?"  
"My- how do you say- my objective," Eliseo finally got the word, "my objective is simply to better understand creatures like you. I do not kill them. I learn about them."  
"Yes, to then give to hunters so that they may better find ways to kill us. Is that it?"  
"Of course not. I do not pass my knowledge on to hunters."  
"Nonsense! How did Émile know what I was? He did not know before. Someone must have told him. You were there."  
"It was not me, Madame, and that is the truth. For neither did I know you were a kuollaan. It caught me by surprise just as much as it did you by his knowledge of it."  
Lydia remembered his whispered exclamation at Émile's revelation. "Suppose I believe you. Why did you help us?"  
"It is what I do. I do not kill. On the contrary, I save. In order to join Émile in Fluie, I posed as a high-ranking officer sent from Spain to study the new creature he discovered- this would be you- and surprisingly easily was I allowed in. It was not completely a lie, except for the fact that I am not an officer nor do I work for a division of hunters."  
"That is it!" Lydia exclaimed. "How do you know of me?"  
"I will admit that I have some communications throughout different foreign countries. It just so happens someone over here reported to me that the major hunter division over here  had their hands full. It piqued my interest, so I came. I learned more about you and what you were doing every day I spent here. Must I say you've gotten virtually nowhere in- what?- a year?"  
"You've been stalking us for a year?" Lydia shouted.  
"Oh, well, I suppose I have, Madame, if you'll forgive me. And the roses on Delilah's grave, Madame, was me. I planted them there in the hopes that you would visit her grave, find them, and immediately suppose that it was Victor's or Oliver's doing. I watched you in the graveyard; indeed, was it impressive when you noticed my presence without seeing or hearing me! But then you said it would be best to stay when your Governor asked if you should leave. Why?"  
Lydia was amazed. She had felt something, yes, but it was indistinct; she had not known what it was, thus why she had answered Elliot so vaguely. "I don't know. It was just a whim, some sort of feeling that told me to stay."  
Eliseo looked eagerly at her. "Brilliant," he whispered. "A creature that runs both on instinct and on reason, uncannily like a human yet so, so indescribably- dissimilar and-!"  
Lydia slapped him. "I wouldn't use that word so lightly if I were you, Eliseo. I was human once."  
He seemed unaffected. "Yes, but that is precisely the thing- once. You were human once. Not anymore."  
Lydia had forgotten any other questions that she may have wanted to ask and said, "What do you want?"  
"Take me to your Governor. I wish to speak with her."  
"That was the plan," Merlin said. "What else would we do with you?"  
"Several things. Abandon me in the forest, knock me unconscious, kill me-"  
Lydia grabbed his forearm with a force that apparently surprised him. "We're not savages, Eliseo. Walk before we do decide to do one of those things."  
        So they did, being careful all the while to scope out for hunters that may have stayed in the area. Thankfully, Chlealiva was a small province and bordered Fluie, so it would demand minimal effort to get there. Eliseo asked why ever should they have been more careful when in the forests of Fluie when Lydia told them that they could relax. She just smiled and sarcastically remarked that she thought he would have known. Eliseo then whispered to himself about perhaps missing something and fell into silent reflection. Abraham and Lydia were having a whispered conversation about what they would do with Eliseo, whereas Merlin was walking steadily beside Eliseo, tense and ever-prepared for anything the stranger might decide to do.  
        Within a couple of hours, the travelers were brought to the populated areas of Fluie. The trees still towered above them and darkened the ground beneath them, but they knew that they were home. The province of Fluie was largely filled with forests. It served no purpose except to house a portion of Rousétte's population. It grew no food, it produced no lumber, it bloomed no roses, and yet the people of the nation cherished it with a great sense of importance. They did not worship the forests but indeed cared for them. The trees were not solely trees to them; the trees were people alongside them. They lived just as people lived; they housed and protected just as people housed and protected family. They detested cutting down trees; to them, it is as grave as murder. But still it is sometimes necessary. When they are cut down, they are used to their fullest potential; not a piece of bark or a leaf is wasted. This reluctance toward wastefulness gave a simple appearance to the towns of Fluie, even the home in which the Governors stayed was as small and inconspicuous as the average citizen's. It was simple in appearance, but it was grandiose in sentiment.  
        Eliseo was astounded as they entered the first city. A narrow pathway forked off from the main road through the forest; so tight was it that they had to walk in a line, each behind another. It was as if the city had been built into the trees. Fluie was perhaps the most secluded area in the country, yet the towns spread out through the land- and indeed the land itself- held a peculiar sense of camaraderie. The sunlight was shrouded by the canopy of leaves and branches, and the town was immersed in a pleasant, light sheet of darkness; always there did it appear late into the evening, always there was it peacefully suspended in a sleepy, comfortable aura. This was the city of Un-Trå, the capital of Fluie, where the Governor lived.  
        The people wandering the town even in the middle of the day were few. Some passed them, overburdened by bundles of goods they would sell in the central cities of Rousétte, perhaps even the capital. Either way, one knew that the traveler would not be back home for days, if not weeks. To see the town deserted midday was an unusual spectacle, for the citizens, who restricted their movement enough as it was, refused to traverse the forests at night. As such, all attempted to do their business in the reassuring spotlight of the sun. But as they walked, hardly did they see a group larger than two. What came as an especial shock was the complete lack of children. With every generation that passes, the belief in the superstitions of the island is diluted a little more, like water added to blood until the blood is merely a drop in an ocean. While the blood was still thick, it was not quite so as it used to be, and the Fluiean children weren't afraid to explore beyond the nest from time to time. Typically, a group or so of them could be spotted playing with one another in the middle of the town, where shopping stations and buildings had been built in a clearing amidst the trees, or exploring beyond the capital, where there were no homes or buildings or shops, where there was nothing but red-tinted soil and underbrush.   
        But there weren't any children. Their bright laughter did not ring, their sweet songs did not flow through the air, their footsteps did not crunch the branches beneath them. It was silent, aside from the huddled conversations the few remaining circles of people held. The other three eventually caught on to the foreboding atmosphere of the capital as they walked. Lydia was approached by Ruth, weeping and hyperventilating. Ruth threw her arms around Lydia and collapsed into her. Lydia supported her. "Ruth, what's happening? Is the Governor alright?"   
Abraham and Merlin crowded around them. Abraham asked, "Ruth? Ruth, are you okay? Unharmed? What is the matter?"   
Ruth could not answer; she was beside herself with hysteria. When Lydia looked up from Ruth's quaking shoulders, the Governor walked forward. "The children have gone missing," she said. "Every single one of them. There isn't a trace. It is as if they just disappeared."   
Lydia passed Ruth over to Abraham, who had been trying to calm her down. "I noticed, Governor. Are you certain- every one of them?"  
"Yes, all of them," the Governor's voice was low, grieving. "Every adult who has children have all reported them missing. But it seems to be restricted solely to Un-Trå, luojan kiitos. I contacted Governors from other provinces about this phenomenon, and nothing of the sort has happened to them. Only two have agreed to aid in the search- the Governor of Chlealiva and the Governor of Luije."   
Luije was the smallest province of Rousétte- hardly a tenth of Fluie's size.   
"And the others? What did they say?" Lydia asked.  
"Most say they are too preoccupied with their own people, what with the war."   
"Hm, I suppose," she said, admittedly with scorn.  
"But where the hell were you?" Elliot burst. "Where have you three been during all of this? And just who is that you've brought with you?" But she eventually lost her aggressive edge and said, softly, "And you're covered in blood and filled with bullets."   
"That is something we need to talk about, Elliot," Abraham said. "There is much we need to discuss."   
"Likewise," said she.  
        The Governor took her sister's arm and escorted the group through the town and to her home. When they were all comfortably sitting in her parlor and Ruth had calmed down, the first thing Elliot demanded to know was who Eliseo was. He told her just what he had told Lydia. She was silent for more than a minute, dumbstruck and appalled. It seemed that she did not know what to say. After staring at Lydia as if for an answer, Elliot finally said, "You've- You've ruined everything, do you know that?"   
Eliseo, despite knowing the gravity of what he had done, had not considered that he had "ruined" anything. "Have I? That was not my intention, Governor."  
Elliot jumped out of her chair and shouted, "Intention doesn't matter, fool! Because of you, we now have nothing!"   
"I wouldn't be so sure," he said. "With my help and knowledge of these creatures- for I'm sure you've come to the conclusion that they are not human by now- you may be able to find them faster than ever."   
Lydia raised her eyebrows at his proposition. "Now, wait just a moment-"   
"He's right," Merlin interjected. "If indeed they are monsters, he may be of tremendous help."   
The Governor slowly sat back down after she had calmed.   
"Indeed, he may even be able to help with the missing children!" Abraham said. "I'm sure an entire city's worth of children could not possibly just disappear without a trace unless it was the work of something inhuman."   
Elliot's lips were tightly closed. She was in thought.   
"Governor," Lydia disbelievingly said. "You can't really think to hire him! The one who ruined your plan!"   
Elliot had a troubled look. "They're right, Blackwater. Eliseo could very well be of significant help. After all, I had no real plan in the first place. The roses was the only lead we have, but it seems after all we don't have a thing. They have eluded us, Blackwater. I think it best to focus on the missing children first."   
Lydia resigned ditheringly. "I suppose you're right, Governor."   
"That reminds me of something else," the Governor said. "What happened those three days you were gone?"   
Merlin explained it to her but added that they were safe thanks to the Governor.   
She smiled and prepared to stand, but Abraham stopped her with an exclamation, "There's another thing, Elliot."   
The Governor lifted an eyebrow curiously and sat back. "What's that?"  
"Lydia, Merlin, and I-" He paused wearily. "We, you see, we saw something in the, the forest."  
Elliot looked interested and said cautiously, "And what did you see?"   
"It was a-"  
"We don't know what it was," Lydia intervened. "There was a fire. A posse of Rousétteans were burning Chalínian flags. Then there was a flash. I didn't see anything, but Abraham claims to have seen something- you'll have to ask him. I'm not quite sure what Merlin saw. But the people there, Governor, they went blind."   
Eliseo was listening with rapt attention.   
Elliot was shocked. "What? How are you sure?"   
"Their eyes were burned. If I didn't know better, I would've said they didn't have any."   
"Fascinante," Eliseo whispered. "Muy extraño."   
"Do you have something to say, Eliseo?" Lydia asked, perhaps a little too loudly.   
"I may have an idea as to what this is, if only you will give me some time to think, Governor."   
"Of course. Something is better than nothing, after all," she answered. Elliot stood. "Merlin, please show Eliseo and Abraham to some rooms. Blackwater, tomorrow we will be meeting our aids in Auta-Oupas, the capital of Luije. Be prepared, please."   
        Despite Eliseo's behavior irking her, Lydia could not help but allow a smile as Elliot said the gracious word "we".


	28. When The Morning Came

        When the morning came, Lydia had readied their carriage on the side of the road. She looked upon it with such a potent feeling of indifference she surprised even herself. Lydia should have been feeling something. Victor and Oliver had escaped them for now; indeed, she should have been angry! Yet she could not shake this emptiness, this emotional rut Lydia found herself buried in. A part of her was annoyed. Still, she did not do a thing to change it. It might have been strange, coming on so suddenly, but she felt there was something more to happen, something larger. Pinpointing the sensation was like groping and stumbling in the dark in search of a light. There is a subtle idea of one, memories guiding your movements in its direction, but nothing is sure in the darkness. You know only vaguely where you are moving; nervous anticipation builds up in your chest, in your arms, in your legs, like water against a dam until you brush up against something, touch something, feel something. Is it what you seek? You do not know. Will you turn and check? Perhaps not. Nothing is sure in the darkness.   
        It was with this sense of dissociation and apprehensiveness that Lydia and the Governor set forth to the province of Luije. Lydia did not voice her hesitation. How could she? She felt pity for her Governor. Elliot failed to find Victor and Oliver, failed to find anything about Delilah's murder, failed to locate Vincent, failed to imprison Émile. It hurt Lydia to even think about it. So to prevent Elliot from doing something, saving someone, was against what Lydia lived for; that is, the Governor herself. This may have been the chance for Elliot to prove herself as a Governor, as much as it pained Lydia to admit that she needed to, despite Lydia's creeping intuition to avoid entering Luije entirely.  
        And thus she let it happen. Without interruption, they entered the tiny province hours early for the scheduled meeting, which had been specifically instructed by Olsson Lévêque, the Governor of Luije. Elliot assumed that he wanted to speak to her about something, something outside of the meeting, but the news of this only made Lydia's anxiousness grow like a patch of weeds. It had begun to rain when they were invited into Olsson's mansion.  
        Like a gentleman, Olsson went out to greet them and offered them his umbrella, but Olsson was far from a gentleman. Despite his efforts to hide the fact, Lydia could see it in his stiff manner, his sharp, glaring eyes; she could see it in the way he spoke to them with his mocking voice that sounded so aloof and cold one could hardly tell who he was addressing unless he said a name. Olsson was old, older than Abraham, but he did not act so. His balding head was incessantly titled arrogantly upward as if the simple act of looking downward would taint his dignity. Olsson's entire façade embodied the dreadful rain that pounded on the roof. He carried about him a dark, solemn air that caused dread to creep into the eyes of any bystander watching him along. Certainly they were not thrilled to be in Olsson's presence.   
        However, the Governor of Chlealiva was the opposite in the truest sense of the word; he was a breath of fresh air, a gleam of sunlight in this rainy gloom. Young, fresh, and full of life was Achille Laurentin. The province of roses was a fit for the man, for so closely did he seem to personify the brilliant blooms that any other land would have been a grave disgrace to his appearance and, indeed, his behavior. Achille was the true gentleman of the duo, and Olsson could sense this. All that can be said is that it is no wonder Chlealiva and Luije have not intermingled with one another in recent years. The poor old man is sick with jealousy- a horribly petty but characteristic thing of him. But it is no wonder. Any average man would be the same if they saw Achille's blond, silky hair, his near flawless skin, and his dazzlingly blue eyes. His temperament, too, went well with his image; Achille was gentle and soft when he spoke and touched and looked but pulled it off so as not to be condescending to whomever had his attention.  
        Elliot and Lydia were not fazed by it, for they were not here to admire or grimace in disgust at another's looks. When they were seated in Olsson's parlor,- likely due to Lydia's status as an assistant, she was not given a seat, but Achille graciously offered her his and stood beside Olsson- he got right to the point as to the reason he expected them all there so early.   
"I've noticed quite the pattern appearing across our beloved Rousétte these past few months." He looked sharply at Elliot. "I've also no doubt that it involves you, Governor Phorus."   
"And why-" Lydia was interrupted by Elliot, who held up a gloved finger.   
"Continue, please," she said. "What pattern have you noticed?"   
"I began my observations since you disappeared from Fluie. Last year, I believe." When he next spoke, Olsson's voice was loud and threatening. "Not only did you neglect your duties as Governor of Fluie, but you were spotted in Chalín- not once!- but several times throughout the year, often with Chalínian citizens. Surely you realize how bad this appears to the rest of us? And to boot, you seem to have a very strong relationship with the nobleman Abraham Volleh, a former Chalínian citizen. Am I wrong?"   
"You are correct," Elliot responded. "This is all true."   
"You do not deny any of this?"   
She shook her head. "I do not."   
Lydia looked wearily at her.   
Olsson smiled triumphantly. "Then, Elliot Phorus, Governor of Fluie, and Lydia Blackwater, assistant to the Governor of Fluie, you are hereby under arrest for treason and murder."   
Evidently, Olsson had not informed Achille of his plan, for Achille himself was quite shocked. "Wait one moment!" He shouted.   
"Treason? Murder, for God's sake?" Lydia yelled, despite Elliot's command to keep silent. "Show us the proof you have of these crimes!"   
"Gladly, I will," Olsson calmly said. "On the charge of treason,- how do I say this?- there is a reason we have a wall, Governor Phorus. There is a war going on, in case you've forgotten. Under no circumstances, the Duchess has made it quite clear already, should anyone pass through that wall-"  
"Aha!" Lydia exclaimed. "But the Duchess herself has given us permission to pass through! All this shows me is that you have failed to delve deep into the reasons for our actions. To accuse us of treason is the equivalent of accusing the Duchess of treason."   
Elliot's face was stoic.  
"That my be so, but there was one- or a few- instances in which you passed through the border gates before Duchess Rousseau came to power. Thus, at one moment, you did not have permission. Did you really think no one was watching? Did you really think you could trust that little guard to not run off and tell?"   
Achille seemed not to know what to say.   
Olsson sighed contentedly, reveling in the moment. "It seems you do not know what to say."   
"And the murder?" Elliot asked. "What proof do you have of this?"   
"Why, Governor, we have a witness! A man named Axel Laurue. I am sure you know of him? He is attesting to the murder of his wife and, if that is not bad enough, the kidnapping of his children. A woman named Lydia Blackwater, he said, came to his home requiring immediate care for her unconscious companion. One thing and another happened, and his wife was dead on the floor."   
Elliot looked up at her, terribly surprised. "Lydia, is this true?"   
"See here, Governor Lévêque! Did Laurue tell you that he attacked me first? That his wife had shot me? That they are-" Lydia suddenly stopped. To tell him that Axel and Sylvia were hunters and attacked her would imply that she was something other than human.  
"They are what, Blackwater?" Olsson asked.   
"Careful," Elliot whispered.  
Lydia thought quickly and blurted out, "They are thieves! They stole something from me while I was there. I attempted to retrieve it, and then they attacked me."   
Elliot relaxed.  
"What did they steal from you?"   
Lydia smiled. "They stole my money. They are a poor family. I don't know why I didn't expect it. I was simply beside myself about my companion's state that I suppose I just didn't notice. But it is predictable Axel did not mention these details. Of course he does not want to get himself in trouble."   
Olsson seemed disappointed. "I see. But how am I to know if any of this is true?"  
Elliot straightened her back. "Lydia, contact the companion that was with you at the time. I'm sure Governor Lévêque is kind enough to lend you a raven. In the meantime, let us speak no more of this. Arrest me if you like, but I'm afraid, more importantly, there are children's lives at stake."   
Lydia nodded. "Of course."  
"Ask one of the maids for a raven, Blackwater," Olsson begrudgingly ordered.   
"I agree," Achille said. "These children should be our top priority as of now. They could be dead. But the sooner we find them, the less likely this is to be. It is truly a tragedy."  
       Thankfully, Olsson had agreed to discuss the topic of the missing children, and, by the time they were finished, Olsson had no choice but to offer Achille and Elliot lodgings at his manor. Lydia did not return to their designated room until hours after she had left to get a raven. She informed the Governor that she had taken the liberty to invite Abraham as well as Émile to come to Luije to testify for them. When Elliot jumped up in surprise, Lydia calmed her down by stating that it was under very strict circumstances. Lydia had told all three of them just what to say to the judge she had no doubt they would be seeing very soon. Elliot cautiously asked her what "strict circumstances" meant. She said that she had offered Émile the lourierre in return for his testimony in favor of them. Lydia was almost certain that he would respond positively.   
        Elliot was beside herself. She said no more to Lydia and went off to bed immediately. For the first time in a long time Elliot began to dread the moment the morning came.


	29. No Where To Go

At night, particularly in the central parts of the island, where the land is most mountainous, the earth is draped in a curtain of fog. This mist dutifully covers everything on the base of the mountains except for the crowns of the trees that towered above, as hard as it may try. As dark as the night is, this fog makes it even darker. Since the veil does not reach the canopy of the forest, the trees are the only things that reveal the true light. Desperately they try to aid you; they have fought off the fog with their strong trunks, they have swept away the mist with their bunched leaves, they have pulled back the veil with their blooming branches. Still, you find yourself lost in it, hardly able to see, barely able to hear. All they can do is watch mournfully downward as you attempt to find your way, unmoving and silent. Relentlessly they endeavor to clear away the confusion, but their efforts are only useful if you look up. You don't. You never do. You are ignorant in your journey, ignoring the ones who are truly attempting to help you in favor of the ones that are striving to trap and subdue you. You are lost.  
        These are the circumstances in which Abraham, Maribelle, and Merlin traveled that evening. Not quite yet had they ended up lost, but already the fog had begun to slowly crawl upon the scene. It only took a few minutes for the humid haze to engulf them. Several times Abraham had felt Merlin stop the carriage, likely to find out where they were, but never did he leave the carriage, never did he even ask Merlin if he would like help. There was something about the fog that unnerved him. Perhaps he was just nervous from being in the forest at such a late hour; after all, they had left immediately after receiving Lydia's message. The sun had already begun to set by then, and the moon was high in the sky as their carriage rocked along the path. Only now did the moon refuse to shed its light.  
        As Abraham pulled back the curtain in front of the carriage window, something about the sight of the rolling mist repulsed him. It danced in the air too gracefully; it curled under the horses' hooves too fluidly. Something about it looked wrong, was wrong. And as dread began to pool in his chest and as he finally began to pull his hand away, Abraham stopped. There was someone on the side of the road. It was dark; he couldn't tell who it was. He felt himself stop breathing for a moment. The figure turned toward the carriage as it rattled on. It raised its hand and waved. Abraham leaned back, breathless, shaking. Suddenly, he felt fearful for Merlin's safety. But there was no where to stop, no where to go. They were in the heart of the Fluiean forests.   
        Merlin had seen it. Although it had been just as obscured to him as it had been to Abraham, he knew it was no good. He had not been born on the island, but Merlin quickly learned that nothing in these forests were good. Oftentimes not even the people. The sight of the figure hidden amidst the trees and underbrush forced a memory into his mind. The memory of what he saw in the flash, what he saw while others went blind. It pained him to think about it. To humor this recollection struck him physically just as it did emotionally, like a knife in the center of his chest. So immersed in his contemplation was Merlin that he did not notice the lights up ahead, obscured in the fog, but bright enough to just barely be seen in the distance- a speck, like a star in the sky.   
        The approaching wanderer, too, did not seem to notice them.  
        When eventually they came close enough, jerking the horses to the side was all Merlin could do to stop them from colliding. It seemed the fog had grown so thick that they could hardly spot each other from even that close of a distance. The stranger shouted something. Merlin yanked the carriage to a stop, as did his mysterious companion a few moments later. He stepped down from the coachbox. Abraham opened the carriage door. They looked at each other. Neither one of them spoke. Abraham silently came down and gently shut the door. They waited. Then the stranger approached, slowly, holding above his head a candle-lit lantern. It was Émile.   
Émile's confused expression morphed into a disappointed one. "It's far too much of a coincidence for us to be on the same path at such a dangerous hour at night. I suppose you've heard the news about Elliot?"   
Merlin and Abraham met each other's gaze. Merlin spoke first, "Yes. You were invited?"   
"Of course. They offered me something in return for my testimony. I simply couldn't give it up."   
"I see," Merlin said.  
"But we were going in opposite directions," Abraham noted. "Surely that's a mistake."   
"Yes, yes," Émile began. "Well, I hate to admit it, but I believe I was a bit lost. See, I've only ever been to Luije once, and, being such a small province, if one makes a single wrong turn, it's likely to lead you astray. I turned around to take my chances at finding someone who may be able to help me."   
"You came alone?" Merlin asked.  
"I was instructed to," he answered. "Lydia informed me that this was an incredibly delicate matter and that, if I wanted my reward, I was to do everything she asked. I've no intention of letting this deal elude me."  
Abraham frowned. "What did they offer you?"   
Émile smiled. "I see no harm in telling you. They offered me the lourierre."   
Merlin's mouth gaped. He whispered, "Why on earth-?"  
"It was as they wished. I would have been willing to do it for less, but how could I possibly turn them down with such an object at stake?" Émile's smug look fell. "It's a pleasant sight seeing you both alive and well after you so mysteriously escaped me."   
"Is it?" Merlin said.   
Émile frowned, and he lowered his voice. "It is. I've driven myself half mad trying to figure out how you managed it."   
"Thieves never tell their means of gain, do they?" he said.   
"What a delightful way of putting it," Émile said, with a painfully obvious note of sarcasm. "Thieves. I must say I do agree." Émile and Merlin shared an uncomfortably long look before he continued, "Well, it won't be a problem much longer. I will soon get back what was stolen from me, and indeed! Remind me to thank Lydia. In fact, she did me a favor. That fool Laurue thought I did not know what he had, what he was planning to do. Of course I knew. She rid me of his wife, and his children aren't a burden anymore. All that is left for me to do is rid myself of the man. I should thank her," he repeated.  
"So long as you leave her and the Governor alone," Merlin demanded, "we will let you do what it is you need to do."   
Émile smiled again. "Wonderful. Shall we-"  
        But a noise stopped him short. His face fell, and he turned around, thrusting his lantern higher into the air. It did no good, for the haze surrounding them was already so thick and invasive that the light it shone was stifled as if it were covered with a blanket. Émile instinctively stumbled backward. The iron outside of the lantern rattled as the hand holding it shook.   
"What is it?" Merlin asked. "Is it telé'l? Is that what we saw?"   
Émile turned his head to look at him. "I'm afraid not. It's something much worse."   
"How do you know?" Abraham fearfully said.  
"It's been following me for weeks- ever since I left that wretched swamp!" Émile shouted.  
"You mean-?" Merlin started.  
"Ei-Vihaa," Abraham whispered. Then, he raised his voice, "You mean to say that, that she is following you?"   
"I should have listened to them," he said. "They warned me."   
None of them knew what to say, what to do. But then the carriage door opened, and Maribelle came from it.   
"What is it?" She demanded. "What is it?" Maribelle was carrying her rifle.   
"It's- well, dear," Abraham began. "Émile, well, he visited Ei-Vihaa."   
"Please, tell me that's all he did," she said.  
"No, he went into the swamp," Merlin said.  
Maribelle scoffed. "Herra moilpan nos! You are unbelievable, Émile! What an idiot you are!"   
Émile looked as if he had swallowed a spider. He did not respond.  
"To put a legend on your trail! A witch! Practically a goddess! How stupid must you be?" She ranted. "And now you've put our lives in danger because of, of- God, I can't even imagine what you were thinking! Honestly, I've no idea why those Austrian imbeciles would hold you at such high regard as to make you our president!"   
"Now, dear, just calm down, if you would," Abraham gently said. "We simply will not find a way out of here if we are at each other's throats."   
There was another sound, but it was different. It was scraping, like wood against metal.   
        Abraham spun around, but he was not afraid. He was confused, perplexed. Surely, such a sight would have elicited horror in a person, but it did not. No, in fact, he wanted to laugh! The spectacle before Abraham was, to him, overwhelmingly ridiculous, ridiculously comical! Before him, dancing as pairs in a line, was a band of skeletons. They were impeccably dressed. The men wore suits and top hats as black as the sky above them. The women wore flowery, showy dresses of every color, a dazzling rainbow in the middle of a dark night. They could have passed for living had it not been for the fact that they lacked everything but a skeleton. As they danced, each pair took a step forward and continued the moving line. It seemed as if it would never end.   
        Abraham snapped out of his trance. By God, he thought, it was just what he saw in the flash! But it was here, right in front of him! He turned to face the others. Merlin was on his knees. Émile was grasping his rifle tightly; there were tears rolling off his jaw. Maribelle was smiling; her rifle had fallen to the ground, and her arms were curved as if she were holding something in them. Her eyes were cast downward to the space between them; they were loving, soft. Abraham had only ever seen her look that way when she was holding one of their children. He said each of their names, but they did not respond. Instead, they stayed where they were, quiet, still.   
        When Abraham turned around again, he found he was no longer in the forest. The trees and carriage had disappeared; the rough, dirt path was replaced by a marble, impeccably clean floor. He looked down, and so polished had it been that he could see his reflection. The dancers twirled all around him, but they were living- actually living. They had rosy, warm flesh and bright eyes. Abraham looked up. It was a sea of people, all so finely dressed. He seemed to be caught in the middle of the exuberant throng. Abraham looked wildly about him for someone, something familiar, but someone called out his name. Once, twice, then someone  grabbed his arm. He spun around. It was his mother.   
"Abraham, dear, whatever are you doing here? Would you not like to meet her?"  
The music hurt his ears; it was not particularly loud, but every note cut his eardrums as if an entire band were playing right next to him. "Meet her? Meet who?" He asked.  
His mother laughed; Abraham had not heard that laugh for decades. "Oh, darling, are you quite drunk? Have you forgotten it is your duty to meet the arriving guests?"   
"Guests?" He looked around at the full room. "More people are still to come?"   
"Why, of course!" His mother responded. Abraham found this vague.  
"What are we celebrating?" Was all he could find to say.   
Her smile fell. "Darling, are you sure you're alright? The Governor has had a baby!"   
"The Governor? Achille Laurentin?"   
She looked terribly confused. "Now, who's Achille? I'm speaking of Governor Phorus! You do remember who that is, don't you?" His mother laughed again. "Jeanne has given birth to another daughter! Jeanne and her daughters are not here, but Francis showed up not long ago. He said it wasn't time yet- whatever he means by that. I feel he just means that Jeanne should have some time to her children, which, of course I-"  
        But Abraham stopped listening. He looked around, paid more attention to the dancers' faces. And, of course! They were all people he knew, people he knew that have died. And there! That man that had just smiled at him and spun off! By God, was that the late duke? Indeed, the more Abraham looked the more sense it made. These people were not living at all; they simply looked like they were living. They were dead, ghosts. Jeanne, Ruth, and Elliot were not here because they were still alive. But, then, why was he here? He could not believe he was dead, for, surely, he was not! An idea suddenly struck Abraham. He turned back to his mother and said, "Has anyone by the name of Victor Woodry showed up at our doors? Or, perhaps, Delilah Krau? Oliver Abachus?"   
She stopped talking and thought; her eyes scanned the ceiling as if it held the answers. "I don't think so about the men, but I believe a very beautiful woman who told me her name was Delilah showed up quite a while ago. I'm not sure if it's this Delilah Krau you're looking for, but you can go check with her if you like." His mother looked down at him again. "She doesn't say much, poor thing. Terribly shy, I think, the girl. She's the one playing the-" She thought. "-cello, I believe it was."   
        Abraham had run off as soon as his mother said it; the music guided him, growing louder and louder the closer he came. He finally broke through the crowd, and there she was. Her thick, dark hair covered her face as she guided her bow across the cello's tight strings. The dress she wore sitting before him was the same in the picture, that gorgeously green, flowing gown. Her eyes opened. She stopped playing. Delilah looked right at him, and she smiled. She gently put her bow on the seat of the chair and propped her cello against the arm of it. She walked toward him, took his hands in hers, and said, "I've been waiting for one of you."   
"Who killed you?" Abraham asked. He could think of nothing else. He was frightened, confused. He wanted to leave this place.  
Delilah was saddened by the question. "You will not like the answer, Monsieur Volleh."  
"Who? Who was it? Why?"   
"It will not help your case," she said simply.   
"I do not care. Wouldn't you like this to finally come to an end? Don't you want to reveal to this country exactly what happened to you?"   
"I'm afraid if you knew what truly happened-" Delilah stopped. She appeared troubled, scared, even. "you, you wouldn't want to help me."   
"What?" Her words shocked Abraham. "Wouldn't want to help you? Of course I would! Nothing will change that. Whoever did this atrocity to you shall face justice; I will make sure of that! Tell me, Delilah, dear, who killed you?" He gently rested his hands on Delilah's shoulders.   
She smiled gently and looked up at him, into his eyes. "Victor and Oliver did not kill me. They weren't around when it happened."  
"But weren't you shot at the Hummingbird's Harvest, when you were with Victor?"   
"Ah, you read the note, didn't you? I'm afraid the note was not from Victor, nor was Victor the one to show."   
"Then, who wrote it? Who met you at the restaurant?" Abraham urged.  
"I, I simply- I cannot do that to you." Delilah turned away. "Even though they have murdered me, I cannot bring myself to ruin them. I find it more satisfactory if you find out for yourself, Monsieur Volleh." Her voice fell to a whisper. "I'm sorry."   
Abraham's hands slid from her shoulders and fell to his sides. Despite her refusal to capture a chance for justice, he smiled. "You are truly a wonderful woman, Delilah. You know not just how much you affect the living, even after your death. You have sincerely touched me."  
After a moment, Delilah turned back toward him and timidly asked, "But, Monsieur Volleh, no one seems to have ever found my body. My grave is empty. So, if you could, if it is not too much trouble, would you find it for me? I will tell you where it is, if you accept, that is. I believe I will be able to finally relax if I knew that my remains had been retrieved and properly buried."   
Abraham nodded. "Of course, dear."  
        And a second later, when he blinked, Abraham was in the forest again. It had gone by so quickly it seemed to him that it hadn't happened at all. It was strange, like waking up despite not knowing you were sleeping. But he awoke with something new, with the knowledge of something. Abraham knew where Delilah's remains were. They were still in the theatre.

**Author's Note:**

> Here is a guide to the fictional language used: 
> 
> https://www.quotev.com/story/8276236/A-Guide-to-the-Language-of-Friman
> 
> Includes phrases the characters themselves have said.


End file.
